


The Trouble with Makeup

by PotionMastersBitch



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Gay Male Character, Gen, Gender Issues, LGBTQ Character, Papa Bear Jethro Gibbs, Team as Family, Tony DiNozzo & Jethro Gibbs Father-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 23:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18670753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotionMastersBitch/pseuds/PotionMastersBitch
Summary: If Tony had to say when this whole mess had begun, he would say It had all started, and ended, with a harmless little tube of petal-pink lipstick in second grade. Although, if he was being perfectly honest, it might have started even before then, when he was no more than a toddler watching in rapture as his mother painted up her face with every sort of color imaginable and allowed him to help with their selection.Not, of course, that he would confess any such thing to just anyone, if at all.





	1. Chapter 1

            Although he wasn’t quite sure how such an interest had developed in his person, given that he most certainly had been born a boy, Tony had found, much to his great consternation and concern, that the allure of cosmetics had always been one hell of a draw for him. If not now, when he was fully-grown and watching his best-friend Kate apply her evening makeup in his bedroom, then almost certainly when he had still been super young and small enough to sit on the bathroom counter as he watched his mother carefully use her fancy cosmetics to conceal what the illness wreaking havoc in her body had done to her otherwise pretty face. But rather than dwell on _those_ unhappy thoughts for very long, and thus ruin the impromptu slumber party they had spontaneously decided to have that evening at his apartment, after Kate’s total dickwad of a date had stood her for the third and _last_ time, Tony swiftly forced those melancholic remembrances from his brain and focused, instead, on the artistry taking place right in front of his eyes. For that most certainly was what he thought the skill behind such astoundingly precise makeup application was – artistry at its finest.

            For not only was there a great deal of color selection taking place every time a person went about doing their makeup, admittedly his absolute favorite thing about the whole entire process, so too was there a seemingly endless amount brushstrokes and blending to invigorate his artistic and admittedly sometimes feminine senses. Not, of course, that he would admit to having such taboo inclinations to just _anybody_. Not that Kate _was_ , in fact, just another person in his consideration. At least, not _now_ after everything had happened with the Ari Haswari situation.

            “What?” Kate fussed, pausing from her second application of mascara to look at him through the mirror. “Do you think it’s too much?”

            “Too much for _what_ – staying inside and watching bad movies?” Tony scoffed, taking a generous swig of the cheap wine his best friend had brought over.

            “I meant in _general_.” Kate corrected, rolling her eyes.  

            Feeling slightly playful after his third full glass of whatever off-brand box-wine Kate had been thoughtful enough to provide for the both of them, as well as experiencing the extreme need and desire to get rid of some of the gender-confused anxiety wreaking havoc within him with a little bit of his usual forced humor, Tony pursed his lips dramatically and theatrically began to go about examining the artistry of Kate’s face with as many obnoxious facial expressions as he could manage.

            “It’s just as I thought,” Tony somberly declared, carefully cupping her face, “You’re _fucking_ gorgeous.”

            Immediately breaking into a face-brightening smile in response to such a self-esteem bolstering compliment, as she knew it to be a perfectly genuine one as it came from _him_ and not some smarmy dumbass trying to get into her pants, Kate’s rarely-produced dimples made an appearance and stole his breath away.

            “And you,” Kate charitably returned, mimicking his earlier face-cupping, “Are an absolute _stud_.”

            Helplessly cringing at the casual usage of the word _‘stud,’_ even though that was, in fact, how most people saw a man of his looks and stature, Tony clamped down hard on his tongue to school his face into a neutral expression and desperately tried to pass off his harsh reaction as a silent sneeze. Only, one look at Kate’s concerned face told him that his attempts had failed most spectacularly. Because not only was she already ridiculously good at reading faces, to the point that even Gibbs himself was impressed, so too had their newly-strengthened friendship given her extra training in deducing his own particular and unique brand of facial expressions.

            “What?” She frowned, immediately withdrawing her hands. “What’s wrong?”

            Despite the relative innocence of such a harmless inquiry, and the fact that it came forth from the person he trusted _almost_ as much as Gibbs, Tony still found, much to his great shame, that he couldn’t help but feel as if he had walked directly into some sort of nefarious trap – of the sort Gibbs had unknowingly traumatized him with that one evening, ages ago, by bluntly making it known that he already knew Tony was gay and wished he’d stop trying so hard to hide the fact from him. Because as much as said Marine’s acts had been fueled from a place a love, as Kate’s were now, they had still somehow managed to rob him of the very important agency of being able to come-out on his _own_ terms, when he was good and ready and fully prepared to deal with the frightening emotions that came with such a decision.

            “I…”

            Uncharacteristically faltering in his speech as he struggled to swiftly come up with an answer that wouldn’t provoke any uncomfortable questions or conversations, Tony helplessly grimaced and pondered the possibility of vacating the cramped bathroom to go hide in his bedroom, only to recall, at the last moment, that his bedroom door had no lock and his best friend no qualms whatsoever about invading his personal space when she felt that such an action was called for. And so, faced with those unsavory ultimatums, Tony resorted to the distasteful last resort of lying, even though, in all fairness, the words that were about to leave his mouth weren’t _exactly_ untruthful but rather just simply not relevant to the question at hand.

            “I…I just wanted to apologize.” He managed, refusing to meet her discerning eyes.

            “For _what_?” Kate frowned, understandably very confused.

            Not trusting himself to speak at the moment, at least not straight away, Tony desperately stalled for time by turning himself around to face the numerous drawers situated beneath his oversized, yet outdated, sink. And then, never one to allow a theatric moment to pass without adding any additional drama into the atmosphere, he then reached into one of the bottommost drawers and spent the next three to four minutes rooting around beneath the extra washrags and bars of perfumed soap he kept within until, at last, he reluctantly concluded that his façade could last no more and pulled free from the carefully organized space the small bottle of periwinkle fingernail polish he had been planning on slipping into Kate’s purse sometime during the evening.

            “I…I took your fingernail polish without asking.” He confessed, waggling the small glass bottle in front of her face. “I’m sorry.”

            Calmly stretching forward to collect the half-empty bottle of lacquer from his hand, with perfumed fingers that had gone calloused from years of hard work under Gibbs, Kate frowned slightly and calmly tucked away the polish into the undecorated black sports bra she had chosen to wear as a pajama top.

            “It’s just fingernail polish, Tony, you don’t have to look like you’ve killed my grandmother.” Kate gently admonished. “I would have let you borrow it anyways.”

            Somewhat flustered by Kate’s profound nonchalance upon learning that her _male_ best friend had just recently pilfered one of her _cosmetics_ , one of an inarguably _very_ feminine color, Tony fidgeted a bit uncomfortably from his perch on the floor and fiddled with a loose thread on his designer shirt before hastily, and clumsily, trying to steer the subject toward safer territory – only to fail spectacularly in such a regard by doing nothing of the sort.

            “I just…How do you even know how to use all this stuff anyways?” He anxiously demanded, sticking a handful of investigative fingers into one of her overstuffed makeup bags and immediately becoming overwhelmed by all the enticing variety.

            For not only were there containers of differing size and shape, the contents of which he could only really guess at, so too was there at least half-a-hundred differently-shaped eyeshadow pallets split between the two bags, the colors of which were almost _all_ of a different shade and composition despite the great ridiculousness, and luxury, of having three or more selections that were only half-a-shade off from each other, if not less.

            “My mother showed Rachel and then Rachel showed me.” Kate answered, glaring at him as after he nearly dropped a square container of shining material. “And then my sorority sisters in college showed me how to use it without looking like a Victorian prude.”

            More than just a little grateful that his absolute best friend in the world had been able to overcome her childhood modesty programming without going overboard, and subsequently opting to paint up her naturally pretty face every morning with an egregious amount of caked-on makeup ala one Abby Scuito, Tony allowed himself to marginally relax his posture as he silently thanked his lucky stars that, should he chose to give into the great temptation to purchase and use cosmetics on his own person, that he would have the remarkably apt tutelage of someone more than just a little proficient in the art to assist him with his foray into such a feminine hobby.

            “Thank God for your sorority sisters, then.” Tony quipped, still holding the square container of shimmery pink makeup in his fingers. “But what is this shiny stuff? It looks like boot polish, only harder…and pink.”

            Understandably offended upon hearing her makeup likened to something like book polish, or perhaps just genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of the cosmetic her best friend had very nearly dropped mere seconds ago, Kate gave him a very queer look before gently extracting the ornately-decorated silver container from his grasp.

            “It’s _highlighter_ , Tony.” Kate corrected, protectively placing the makeup back into one of her bags. “For the _face_.”

             Although he was admittedly somewhat confused where regarded the rationality of putting something so pink and bright unto one’s face, save for the eyelids perhaps, Tony still glanced curiously down at the shimmery powder covering his fingers and liked what he saw, even _if_ he, in fact, had no real idea as to how it was supposed to be used.

            “It’s really pretty.” He remarked, reluctant to wipe the cosmetic from his skin.

            “It had _better_ be, I paid seventy dollars for it.”  Kate bashfully confessed, understandably more than a just little self-conscious about spending that kind money on cosmetics.

            And, with that softly whispered confession, Kate looked nervously at the closed bathroom door and scooted as far away from the wooden object as she could, in a manner that seemed to effortlessly suggest that at any moment she suspected an angry Gibbs to appear and berate her for such a ridiculous and superfluous purchase, just as he had earlier in that week done to an unsuspecting Abby upon discovering that _she_ had shelled out $200 on full-coverage foundation.

            “ _Relax_ , Kate.” Tony directed, rolling his eyes. “I _promise_ that Gibbs doesn’t have some sort of sixth-sense when it comes to his team buying luxury-products.”

            At first looking as if she might like to earnestly refute such a nepotism-fueled claim, if not on the grounds that Gibbs _had_ , in fact, gone apoplectic on Abby for her ludicrous Sephora purchase that very Monday, than _most certainly_ on the grounds that said temperamental Marine had spent a good half-hour on Wednesday loudly questioning Tim’s intelligence for ‘squandering’ a good two grand on a new personal laptop, Kate frowned moodily and made to defend her caution and paranoia only to stop halfway through, upon sighting Tony’s own frown, and reconsider the wisdom of disparaging her friend’s father – at least so far as non-work-related matters were concerned.

            “Why did you even want my polish anyways?” Kate asked, diplomatically changing the subject for the sake of their friendship.

            “I just…It looked pretty, is all.” Tony evaded, feeling no small amount of guilt for such blatant dishonesty.

            Because as much as it was only natural to feel a little bit of hesitation when it came time to divulge ones darkest and most taboo secrets to their friends, it still stood to reason that he shouldn’t be _so_ damnably terrified of making such a confession to _Kate_ , of all people. For barring the tumultuous first few years of their fledgling work relationship, an unfortunate timeframe in which they had spent more time bickering than bonding over their many similar interests and complimentary personalities, she had been there for him like nobody else the last couple of years – just as he had likewise been there for her. And there was just something so solidifying bonding about watching your best friend get shot point-blank in the chest, and likewise coming out to said friend once the very real danger of her dying had passed, that made him feel all the more ridiculous about his reluctance to confide in Kate. For if their mutually traumatic experiences had taught them _anything_ about the other, it was that they were both equally just as safe to confide in.

            “And you wanted to be pretty?” Kate asked, no sign of disgust showing in her expressive blue eyes.

            Unable to truthfully deny that there weren’t some days when he felt as if all his rough edges and masculine features were too much to bare, almost an equal proportion to the days in which he was perfectly alright with such male anatomy, Tony resumed fidgeting with the lose thread of his shirt and pondered simply changing the subject unto what takeout they were going to get for supper, only to change his mind at the very last moment upon feeling Kate’s comforting fingers on his shoulder.

            “Sometimes…” He admitted, closing his eyes.

            “Did you want to _now_?” Kate offered, the whispered proposal every bit as seductive as the infamous one Satan had once offered to Eve.

            Despite every fiber of his being practically raging against him not to bite into the metaphorical apple being seductively dangled right in front of his eyes via a woman with skills of persuasion that could put a lawyer to shame, Tony soon found, much to his growing panic, that none of the words that denoted refusal would come to his lips.

            “You don’t think that’s weird?” He asked, his voice little more than a whisper and edged with the tiniest flicker of hope.

            Because after enduring a lonely and hellish childhood spent being physically punished for showing the slightest interest in anything even _remotely_ feminine, which to Senior was anything from singing Disney songs to coloring his lips red with a marker, and after likewise surviving a brutal adolescence wherein unyielding isolation was the behavioral-modification method of choice rather than violence, Tony just didn’t have any strength left in him anymore to deal with any potential judgement from his best friend – _not_ when she was one of the very few people in his life who he loved unconditionally and had never returned such a gift with any unearned scorn or judgement of his character.

            “Tony, I once slept with a man who called my _mommy_ while orgasming.” Kate snorted, who voice strained but with no hint at all of dishonesty.

            Not even bothering to restrain himself from gagging in response to such an unsolicited confession, as there were certain times when good manners just weren’t applicable to a situation, Tony allowed his eyes to open and turned to face Kate with a look of abject disgust on his face.

            “Where do you _find_ these losers?” Tony interrogated.

            “The same place as everyone else,” Kate shrugged, “Tinder.”  

            More than just a little grateful that the worst thing he had to contend with on Grindr was the random straight girl trying to secure a gay best friend for herself, or the occasional surprise and minor annoyance that came with inadvertently matching with a bottom, Tony frowned sympathetically and placed a soothing hand on Kate’s knee.

            “Why don’t you just date that hot-ass surgeon who saved your life?” Tony demanded.

            “Maybe because he knows how ugly my chest looks now?” Kate scowled, subconsciously bringing a hand up to her chest.

            “It’s _not_ ugly.” Tony hastily asserted. “And you’re _still_ pretty. _Super pretty_.”

            Blinking suspiciously quickly as she used her slender fingers to readjust the sports bra covering her ravaged chest, so that the fat pink scar running between her breasts was better concealed and much less offensive to her critiquing eyes, Kate stubbornly refused to meet his eyes and sucked in a shaking breath, appearing on the very cusp of heartbroken tears before eventually managing to fortify herself with some silent affirmations and words of comfort.

            “You could be pretty, too.” Kate finally managed, putting on a brave face. “Do you want to try?”

             Glancing longingly at the skinny and oddly shaped tube of black liquid his best friend was currently waggling in front of his face, like some sort of mischievous cosmetic temptress, Tony felt his stomach twist up with an anxious excitement and painful longing.  

             “You don’t think it would be weird?” He asked, once more hesitant to give any real answer to her question for fear of rejection.

            “No.” Kate frowned. “It’s not hurting anyone and it’s what you want to do. What’s so weird about that?”

            Every bit as annoyed by Kate’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge the inherent oddity in a man wishing to wear makeup as was he comforted by the same woman’s unyielding support of his person, no matter _how_ bizarre his needs were, Tony scowled but nonetheless kept his voice cordial as he gave his response.

            “I’m a _boy_ , Kate.”

            “So?” She calmly retorted. “Sarah is a girl and she’s _way_ manlier than her brother.”

            Painfully unable to refute such an accurate claim, as there were certain times in which Sarah McGee seemed even more masculine than _Gibbs_ of all people, what with her attitude and prevalence towards muscularity, whereas her older brother was more inclined towards softness and a certain plumpness in his features, Tony exhaled loudly through his nostrils to show his displeasure and tried, once more, to explain the obvious to the purposefully ignorant Kate.

            “It’s more acceptable for girls to get away with doing boy things than boys to get away with doing girl things.”

            Afterall, Tony thought somewhat bitterly, Maggie White and Greta Wilkens had never been punished by their second-grade teacher for playing at pirates with the bigger boys, _or_ for climbing up into the massive oak tress that littered their playground. No, it had only been _Tony_ who had gotten four consecutive afterschool detentions for naively allowing some of the older girls to practice their makeup and hair skills on his person, even though there had been absolutely no explicit rule in the handbook that had stated anything of that sort was against policy while at the same tree climbing most certainly _was_. And while he might have easily forgotten that injustice, or attributed it to one of the many faults his teacher had possessed at the time, Tony had grown up quickly after his mother’s death and, as a result, had soon learned that such a harsh hypocrisy never really yielded to the passing of time. For not only had he gotten several of his baby teeth knocked out the following year for being so unfathomably dumb to wear perfume to school, and suggest to an oversized antagonizer that he might make better use of the floral scent than he could, so too had his first foray into the intimidating and isolating world of boarding schools taught him just how important it was to present as the correct gender in an unprogressive world that preferred to shun those who dared to dream of a life outside the box they had forcefully been shoved in.

            “Things change, Tony.” Kate persisted, grabbing up his hand in her own. “Slowly but surely.”

            Somewhat heartened by the wisdom his best friend was currently displaying, as it would not at all be erroneous for him to claim that he would have been unyieldingly harassed in several facets of his life had he come out of the closet any earlier than he did, or at least harassed more _violently_ than vocally, Tony squeezed the skinny fingers wrapped about his own and allowed himself a greedy and bracing breath.

            “Does this mean your ready?” Kate pressed, a notable eagerness in her expressive eyes.

            Only, instead of the fetishizing thrill Abby seemed to experience whenever she was able to bring up the fact that she had a gay ‘best’ friend, which was inappropriately and uncomfortably often, to strangers and friends alike, Kate’s enthusiasm stemmed forth from a place of being able to assist her actual best friend in so pivotal a moment. And it was that realization, and that realization _alone_ , which finally compelled him to accept the offer he’d been dying to acquiesce to all evening.

            “And you won’t tell _anyone_?” He pressed, wishing to impress upon his friend the severity of the situation.          

            “Tony, we _both_ know that whatever happens in your bathroom _stays_ in your bathroom.”

            Grimacing somewhat awkwardly as he recalled the rather disastrous brow waxing incident of the previous year, wherein a rather awkward trip to the emergency room had been called for, and likewise the unfortunate hair dying disaster of the previous summer, Tony glanced at Kate’s face and was not all surprised to find the same mortification showing.

            “To the great misfortune of us both.” He quipped.

            “Amen.” Kate agreed, voice mockingly grave.  


	2. Chapter 2

            Having found it quite necessary to go about introducing her best-friend, Tony, into the world of makeup the self-same way in which she had been taught by her two favorite sorority sisters, as Lucy and Madeline McCree had absolutely had the art down to an exact science by the time Kate had been introduced to them, and subsequently instilled within her a remarkable talent for reproducing even the most complicated and detailed of celebrity looks _without_ all the ridiculously-priced cosmetics and professional help, Kate had thoroughly cleansed her face in full preparation of supplying a second canvas for her closest friend to practice certain applications skills upon and had likewise compelled her anxious student to do the same despite his indignant protestations that his face was already most certainly clean. Because if there was only one inarguable and ubiquitous rule when it came time to applying makeup, and one rule only, it was that one should _always_ start with a freshly cleaned face so that the dirt and oil of the morning and evening didn’t actively work to sabotage your efforts by corrupting your makeup a mere ten minutes later.

            “Alright, listen up.” Kate growled, putting on her very best Gibbs impression. “You see _this_ little tube, right here?”

            Waiting quite patiently until a wine-guzzling Tony had swallowed down his latest portion of the cheap merlot she had been kind enough to supply for the evening, on the grounds that the vast majority of _his_ stores were far too expensive and elegant to squander on an impromptu evening of shitty movies and microwaveable popcorn, Kate removed the black lid from the top of the bottle in her hand and squirted a little of the white cream out unto her fingers.

            “This is _moisturizer_.” She lectured, dabbing small circles of the expensive cream unto her friend’s face at random. “ _The_ _most important_ part of this whole entire process. And don’t _ever_ let anyone tell you any differently.”

            Charitably allowing her best friend in the whole entire world to gather up a rather unnecessary amount of the perfumed cream unto his fingers, in preparation of applying it to _her_ face, even though the shameful expense of such a luxury product would normally have her hoarding its contents like a dragon its hoard, Kate smiled encouragingly and kept perfectly still so that none of the expensive product would wind up in her recently-washed hair.

            “Now, obviously, you put this on _after_ you clean you face and it helps to keep your skin from drying your makeup out.” Kate lectured, allowing herself to enjoy the scent of roses that wafted up her nose. “Don’t _ever_ let me catch you _not_ using moisturizer.”

            “Right.” Tony obediently agreed, sucking up the flood of new information like a functional alcoholic sucked up a beer on their lunchbreak. “Rule number one, got it.”  

            Unable to keep from thinking that it was absolutely adorable that Tony was so inclined towards emulating any number of his father’s characteristics and behaviors, like the arbitrary assigning of numbers to self-devised rules, Kate allowed herself an amused smirk but otherwise kept such an observation to herself so as not to derail the project at hand with any baseless and contrarian arguments erupting. For as much as Tony idolized Gibbs as the perfect father, which was markedly so, he never _did_ enjoy accusations that he was slowly, but surely, turning into a carbon copy of said Marine. Even _if_ certain concessions were made during such a debate that he was, in fact, a _nicer_ version of the older man.

            “Thankfully we _both_ have good skin.” Kate somewhat vainly appraised, expeditiously returning the lid of her face-cream back to where it belonged. “If we had wrinkles or something like acne we’d have to use fancier moisturization.”

            And, given what she had learned from listening to a distraught Abby complain about her own rosacea-ridden skin, said moisturizers were most certainly _far_ from affordable for the average consumer.

            “Thank God for good genetics.” Tony sighed, looking somewhat overwhelmed.

            Deciding to quickly press onward with the affair at hand upon taking note of such keen and unexpressed anxiety within her best friend, so that he would not even have _time_ to lose his confidence and reconsider the notion of donning makeup, Kate promptly distracted the troubled young man by slapping a small tube of clear liquid into his unsuspecting hand.

            “Alright, unto the second most important product.” Kate announced. “ _Foundation primer._ This, also, is not a choice.”

            Studiously eyeing the squat tube with the air of a scientist examining some very important slides, Tony squirted out an investigative glob of the makeup unto the back of his hand and grimaced as the admittedly lube-like texture met his skin.

            “Uh, what _is_ this stuff?”

            “It’s primer.” Kate repeated. “It primes your face - for foundation.”             

             Looking more than just a little reluctant to have the silicone-based gel brought anywhere _near_ his face, as he was every bit as vain as she when it came to the preservation of his skin, Tony frowned and looked ready to toss the offending makeup in the small garbage bin he kept near the toilet.

            “Is it _really_ necessary?” He fussed, eagerly surrendering the tube back into Kate’s hand.

            “Is paint primer necessary for painting a boat?” Kate rebuttled, once more making good use of her Gibbs voice.

            Thoroughly unable to offer up any genuine argument against such unyielding wisdom, as Gibbs had no doubt impressed upon him the importance of setting a good foundation for paint several times during the length of their relationship, Tony scowled a little petulantly and stubbornly stood his ground – in a manner _very much_ like his father, whether he would care to admit it or no.

            “My face _isn’t_ a boat, Kate.”

            “No, but it’ll look _grainy_ like one if you don’t use primer.” She forewarned.

            Because if her one awkward high-school date with Francis Wheeler had taught her _anything_ about the fickle nature of makeup, it was that an unprimed face was just _asking_ for the appearance of ugly and age-inappropriate wrinkles to make themselves known right in the middle of an impromptu make-out session in the back of a cramped jeep.

             “I don’t really think – “

            “Who’s the expert here?” Kate impatiently demanded, smacking him on the shoulder.

             “Alright, alright.” Tony acquiesced, rubbing away the sudden soreness in his arm. “I bow to your expertise, Madame.”

            Somewhat curious as to whether or not her friend was quoting yet another movie from his endless mental collection of such a medium, yet not so much that she felt the need to inquire into such a trivial matter, Kate rolled her eyes but nonetheless swiped the goo from the back of Tony’s hand before methodically applying it to his unblemished face.

            “We don’t need to use brushes for this?” Tony asked, disappointment clear in his voice.

            Entirely unable to stomach the profound disenchantment on her friend’s face, as Tony very much resembled a small child being told their told their favorite pet had been run over by a car, Kate swiftly took action and sought to reassure him that the fun parts of makeup application were soon to come.

            “We’ll get to the brushes, I promise.” Kate soothed, meticulously smoothing out the product on his face with careful strokes. “But first, we need to get past the foundation.”

              “Got it.” Tony obediently replied, a small flicker of excitement returning to his face.

            Almost immediately made thankful for the fact that she kept a darker shade of foundation in one of her cosmetic bags for when she inevitably became a little darker in the summer, as Tony smiled brightly upon the realization that he wasn’t about to be forced into wearing a shade nearly three shades lighter than his natural skin tone, Kate allowed herself an indulgent smile of her own as she squirted some of the darker liquid into her hands.

            “What do we need foundation for anyways?” Tony inquired. “Isn’t it for hiding flaws?”  

            “It’s also used to make a nice base.” Kate assured. “Especially for contouring.”

             Despite clearly having no real idea as to just what contouring entailed, despite being a self-admitted fan of watching RuPaul’s Drag Race with his father, Tony nodded knowingly and murmured his concession to such a statement – either unwilling to prove himself ignorant of something one of his friends was well-versed in or elsewise simply bowing to her expertise of the subject matter at hand.

            “We’re going to use our fingers first.” Kate lectured, bringing her makeup coated fingers to his face. “And don’t let anyone tell you any differently.”

            Obediently nodding along to her ongoing lecture like a timid schoolboy far too nervous to disobey his stern teacher, Tony sat perfectly still and pliantly allowed Kate to molest his face with her makeup-covered fingers, not so much as fidgeting or flinching no matter _how_ close she came to his eyes. As if somehow, at some early point in his childhood, his heavily traumatized brain had convinced him that showing any signs of negative emotion to a person he esteemed, no matter how minorly, would only end in a dissolved relationship. Which, in Kate’s humble opinion, was one of _the_ most heartbreaking realizations she had experienced in a very long time. But, rather than try to convince her friend via words that minor annoyances and arguments were bound to happen from time to time betwixt two people who enjoyed a close relationship, and subsequently run the risk of her efforts going to waste on the stubborn and sensitive man seated directly opposite her, Kate kept mum on the matter and resolved to do her convincing with action instead, having always believed, since a very early age, that _‘doing’_ rather than _‘saying,’_ was far more effective in correctly showing a person how you felt about them.

            “We’re going to use one of _these_ things now.” Kate announced, withdrawing her fingers to grab up a fresh, never-used, sponge of pale pink. “To get rid of the streaks and even everything out.”

            Innate and profound sense of curiosity compelling him to give the oddly-shaped sponge an investigative squeeze, Tony held the colorful object close to his eyes and pursed his lips in a very clear display of confusion.

            “Where the hell do you buy something like this?” Tony questioned.

            “Walmart.” Kate shamelessly divulged. “And don’t ever let some snooty asshole try and convince you to get the more expensive name-brand ones, because thirty dollars for a foam sponge is just ridiculous when these ones work perfectly fine.”  

            And while the vehemence with which she spoke might very well have appeared very unfounded and unsettling for someone so cosmetically-uneducated as Tony, Kate stubbornly refused to soften her expression as the very indignation she felt toward price-gouging assholes aggravated her to no end and made it all but impossible for her to keep her countenance sweet.

            “Onto setting powder.” Kate promptly decided, wishing to keep the metaphorical ball rolling. “This is the stuff that keeps your foundation looking nice.”

            And while Kate _could_ have monkeyed around with Tony’s emotions by making a series of motions that suggested fingers would be the application-tool of choice for such a crucial makeup, and thusly get back at the mischievous man for managing to convince her that windshield fluid was a very real and necessary thing for proper vehicle maintenance, she charitably opted for a bit of magnanimity and theatrically pressed a very specifically-shaped brush into his unsuspecting hand. An action which, despite being seemingly small, served perfectly well to instantly flood Tony’s expressive face with a myriad of soul-lifting emotions – the very nature and intensity of which bringing her dangerously near to sympathetic tears of happiness. But, rather than run the risk of embarrassing the both of them with such a sappy display of cliched Hallmark emotion, Kate clamped down hard on her tongue to keep the tears at bay and additionally swallowed down a large swig of wine before pressing onward and directing her best-friend as to how best apply the very loose, and very fine, powder to his face with the brush.

            “Now, let’s get to the contouring.” Kate decided, after they had both enjoyed a rather leisurely break for wine.

            “Contouring.” Tony obediently parroted, sitting up straighter in eager anticipation of the next step. “Right.”

            “Now, this is the hard part.” Kate kindly forewarned. “Because if you do it wrong, you’re either going to look like a whore or a clown.”  

            An unfortunate little life-lesson she had learned the exceedingly hard way after being stupid enough to trust her _own_ naïve judgement of her first contouring session without first verifying its quality with a few of her friends first. Because if there was anything worse than jaunting around in public with a face-full of wonky makeup, it was jaunting around in public with a face-full of wonky makeup in the mall where your college-crush had gathered to hang out with all his just-as-hot friends. For as long as Kate lived, she would _never_ forget the looks of horror on all their faces as she strolled confidently over to their table and seated herself in the midst of them, flirting happily away with the lot of them even as they tried, and failed, to conceal their bemusement and mockery behind their beverages.

            “Now, you want to be sure to only use a color one of two shades darker than your skin already is. Otherwise you’ll just look sloppy or dirty.” Kate educated, dipping a very specific brush into one of the powders of her contouring palette. “And we’re going to contour our cheeks, our jaws, our foreheads, and our noses.”

            Despite enjoying all the befits of an eager pupil possessive of remarkably steady hands and markedly keen vision, Kate soon found, much to her slight chagrin, that the process of teaching Tony how to accurately apply contours took a good forty-five minutes. A lengthy stretch of time which, while seemingly innocuous given that they had no real plans or pressing matters to attend to for that evening, was unfortunately long enough to cause her antsy student to become both doubtful of his success and likewise equally just as dubious about the appropriateness of the impromptu learning session at hand. But rather than allow the discouraged man to give up completely and abandoned his much-needed experimentation with femininity, and likewise unhealthily stuff whatever gender-confusion issues he was clearly having down into his person until he exploded, Kate had quickly intervened and maneuvered his hands for _him_ , effectively putting an end to the awkwardness of his brush-stroke placements.

            “We can get to the fun part now!” Kate encouraged with a smile, wishing to reinvigorate her closest of friends. “Highlighter!”

            Just as she had hoped for, Tony’s face brightened up instantly at the mention of just such a cosmetic, his smile becoming so wide and his eyes so shiny that Kate couldn’t help but liken him to a small child who had just been told they could, in fact, have an ice cream cone after initially being refused such a treat on spurious grounds.

            “What color do you like, Tony?” Kate eagerly pressed. “I have pinks, golds, pearls – even some blues if you really want to have a little fun with this.”

            Understandably more than just a little overwhelmed with all the sudden choices being pressed unto him without warning, Tony stiffened a bit and frowned before turning to Kate for assistance.

            “I don’t know.” He frowned. “It’s all so pretty. What do you think?”

            “I think gold would work best with your skin tone.” Kate decided, pressing into his palm a small square of said color.

            Gingerly cracking open the small container with the cautious air of a bomb-defusing agent approaching an unfamiliar IED, Tony peeked at the shimmering contents within and swiped a cautious finger across the powdery landscape so recently provided to him.

            “Holy shit,” He breathed, reverently withdrawing his fingers from the compact to stare at the cosmetic now coating his fingers, “This is really pretty.”

            “I know.” Kate smiled. “But we’re not done yet.”

            Carefully showing her best in the world how to apply the shimmering cosmetic without being too overhanded and looking as if someone had dropped him off in the middle of a rave, or elsewise affixed an entire bottle of glitter unto his cheeks, Kate patiently directing his strokes and was pleased to find that, after only five short minutes, the work was done and the results impeccable.

            “This stuff is amazing.” Tony gushed, somewhat reluctant to surrender the highlighter back into its proper bag. “Where do you get it?”

            “Sephora.” Kate answered. “I’ll take you there soon.”

            Looking absurdly touched at such a simply offer, as if Kate had just offered him the moon rather than a simple guided-tour of a very popular cosmetics-store that anyone had access to, Tony blinked suspiciously quickly and unceremoniously yanked her into a bearhug – effectively preventing her from acknowledging the sudden moon-swing by drawing all the breath out of her body. But rather than impatiently push him away, and thus run the risk of making him feel as if he was being rejected, rather than his actions, Kate calmly returned the embrace and squeezed him in turn as she waited, patiently, for the hug to end on his own terms.

            “What comes next?” Tony finally asked, after a long ten minutes had gone by.

            “Blush.” Kate answered, gently extracting herself from the embrace. “And I think we should you a soft peach on you.”

            Clearly relieved to be given so easy an out after acting so emotionally only seconds before, Tony bravely cleared his throat and accepted the makeup selection Kate plopped into his hand with a theatrically-studious nature.

            “We put this on the apples of your cheeks.” Kate lectured, tapping those belonging to Tony. “Don’t ever put it anywhere else or you’ll look jowly.”

            Alarmed at the very idea that his appearance could ever be described as jowly, Tony became even more studious than he already had been during the initial lessons and paid full, undivided, attention unto Kate as she showed him the best way to apply blush to his cheeks. Which, of course, meant making him smile like a fucking moron so that the apples of his cheeks made themselves more prominent. If such an act only served to amuse her as well, and elicit from her person a poorly-constrained giggle, well, that was only a well-deserved perk of the job.

            “Now, unto eyeshadow.” Kate grinned, opening up several pallets. “What colors do you like?”   

            Perusing the numerous pallets like a medieval merchant would his vast stores of goods during an inventory check, Tony peered at and scrutinized several fine selections before finally, at last, deciding upon a pallet that mainly contained eyeshadows possessive of a little bit of sparkle and shine.

            “I can’t decide.” He frowned. “There’s too many colors.”

            “I think purples would really make your green eyes pop.” Kate suggested, somewhat enviously.

            Because as much as she _did_ have a set of admittedly beautiful blue eyes, the frustrating fact still remained that they were biologically average at best and far from unique. Unlike Tony’s breathtakingly-fascinating dark green eyes.

            “Purple it is then.” Tony agreed, submitting to Kate’s expertise in the matter.

            “Excellent.” She purred, taking the palette into her own hands. “Now, we’re going to need to use three different shades of the same color for one of the more basic looks. And then,” she continued, “We’re going to put the lighter of those shades all the way from lid to brow.”

            “Won’t that look goofy?” Tony fussed, understandably wary of having so much purple on his face.

            Charitably giving her Doubting-Thomas of a friend a little leeway when it came to the questioning of her makeup application skills, as even _she_ sometimes doubted him when it came to certain sports trivia and factoids, Kate pursed her lips but nonetheless remained as pleasant as possible when giving her reply.

            “Just trust me, would you?”

            “I do.” Tony promised, ever eager to prove himself loyal. “I do.”

            “Then close your eyes.” Kate coaxed, smiling encouraging.

            Touching her deeply by the way in which he immediately closed his eyes and surrendered his person into her care, Kate felt her heart constrict a bit and vowed to do whatever it took to make her friend see that she would not abandon him for _any_ reason, no matter how large.

            “Now, the second darkest shade if for the eyelid and a small sliver of space above.” She continued, mapping the area out with a finger so that he could better feel it. “And as for the last of them, we put that all over the lid itself.”

            “And then were done?” Tony questioned, furrowing his well-groomed brows a bit.

            “Oh no.” Kate chuckled. “Then we blend, blend, blend.”

            And, thus said, she waggled the perfect brush for just such an art in front of his newly opened eyes and smiled softly, in return, as she watched her friend’s face instantly brighten with the realization that there were yet more brushes to come.

            “If Senior could see me now.” Tony jested, carefully practicing his eyeshadow-blending on Kate’s face.

            “If Senior was here right now, I’d punch him in the dick.” Kate growled, not even bothering to temper her disdain for such an individual.  

              Because as much as her own parents left a lot to be desired, what with their mild narcissism and tendency towards old-fashioned and outdated beliefs, they had, at the very least, seldom laid their hands. Nor, she thought, had they ever shipped her off to boarding school or camp just to avoid the responsibility of the child that they, themselves, had created.

            “Sorry, Kate, but I think Gibbs has first dibs on that honor.” Tony joked, reluctantly setting aside the eyeshadow brush once he’d finally finished blending.

            “He’ll have to fight me for it.” Kate grumbled, sticking a skinny brush into a small container of mauve eyeshadow. “But, for now, let’s get eyeliner taken care of.”

            Glady accepting the changing of subjects, as it both eliminated his need to keep thinking of Senior and likewise granted him further information about makeup, Tony smiled happily and didn’t so much as flinch as Kate showed him, by example, just how to line the outer portion of the bottom eye with a soft powder.

            “Don’t look so smug.” Kate cautioned, once the work was done. “We’re getting to liquid eyeliner now, and that’s some of the trickiest shit you’ll ever have to deal with.”

            And, if her warning had any way failed to convince him of such a universal norm, the fact that it took a good half hour until Tony was able to properly line his top lid without the end results looking like something a person who actively-seizing might have accomplished, most certainly did. But, rather than allow her friend to become discouraged by such a setback, no matter how profound the nature, Kate steadfastly moved forward with her tutorial and all but prevented him from losing his courage.

            “Mascara now.” She declared, pulling out a tube of just such a cosmetic. “And while we _do_ have a tube of purple and brown available, I think we’re going to go with a classic black because your eyes are already popping.”

            Grinning wide enough to reveal the great majority of his teeth, all of which were perfectly straight and pearly white, Tony blushed mildly beneath his face full of makeup but nonetheless found the strength to properly thank his tutor with a bashful and mumbled reply.

            “You’re welcome.” Kate promptly assured, opening her favorite tube of mascara. “Now – “

            Almost immediately prevented from applying the black cosmetic unto Tony’s already pitch-black lashes as said man jerked ungracefully and batted her hand away, and subsequently stained his white pajamas as a result of the wand being redirected in so unsanctioned a move, Kate cried out indignantly and smacked her wriggling friend on the shoulder.

            “Stop that!” She rebuked. “I’m going to take your eye out!”

            “That’s _exactly_ what I’m afraid of!” Tony defended, still cringing away from the mascara wand.

            Rather than lose her temper and simply demand that Tony man up and sit still, like Gibbs did whenever it was time for said needle-phobic man to get his yearly flu-shot, Kate opted for a bit of her customary charity and approached the matter at hand with more patience and kindness.

            “Open your mouth.” She requested, falling back on one of the first few pieces of advice she’d been given by her sorority sisters.

            “Kate, I swear to God, if you stick that wand in my mouth – “

            “Just do it!” She barked, thwapping him on the shoulder again.

            Despite seeming greatly reluctant to do any such thing, as clearly the threat of having a wand jammed down his throat was still fresh in his mind, Tony glowered heavily at her and reluctantly parted his lips into a perfect resemblance of an O – either once more appealing to her authority on the subject or elsewise simply wishing to avoid getting assaulted in the exact same place again.

            “There.” Kate purred, perfectly smug as she brought the wand to his lashes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

            “If you blind me, Gibbs is never going to forgive you.” Tony warned, speaking carefully so as not to jostle and of the muscles on his face. “And neither will I.”

            Kindly refraining herself from informing her best friend that she was far more terrified of the Godlike wrath of Gibbs than she was afraid of _his_ small temper-tantrums, Kate pursed her lips and rolled her eyes as she continued to carefully go about the process of coating Tony’s lashes in mascara without causing any clumps or cornea-scratching. Because as much as she liked to think that she was all but a cosmetic expert by that point in her life, and thusly nearly immune to such a beginner mistake, Kate really didn’t much fancy the idea of having to explain an angry ex-marine why his child, and favorite agent, no longer had full use of his eyeball.

            “Done.” She finally announced, carefully extracting the wand.

            “Oh, thank God.” Tony irreverently mumbled, slumping his shoulders in a very clear sign of relief.

            “It’s less scary when you do it yourself, I promise.” Kate vouched, neatly tucking away the tube of recapped mascara back into its proper bag.

            Looking very much like Kate had just suggested to him that getting yelled at by Gibbs got less scarier with time and acquaintance, or that hangovers improved with age, Tony took a bracing sip, or four, of wine and gingerly pushed away the bag containing the mascara with his foot, acting as if, at any moment, he expected the tube to spring to life and shank him in the eye on its own accord.

            “We’re done with your eyes.” Kate promised, enjoying a few sips of her own wine. “All we have left is setting spray and lipstick.”

            “Setting spray?”

            “To keep all your hard work from going to crap.” Kate promptly clarified, passing into his hands a small bottle of just such a product.

            “So, it’s like lacquer?”

               Once more mildly amused by the way in which Tony so readily used all the boat-related comparisons his father was so greatly fond of, seemingly without being aware of such a fact, Kate smirked and hid her amusement behind her wineglass before ordering her friend to close his eyes so that she could apply the setting spray with minimal chaos occurring.

            “God, I hope that doesn’t fuck with my lungs.” Tony pipped, belatedly drawing notice unto the fact that his plague-scared lungs might not, in fact, be overly tolerant to aerosols.  

             Instantly panicking at the very suggestion that she might have yet another violent coughing fit to contend with, as the last time Abby had triggered his lungs via hairspray she had been the only one around to assist with the responding medical emergency, Kate practically lunged for her cellphone, fully prepared to dial an ambulance, only to be stalled by a hand on her thigh and a nervous grin.

            “I think it’s fine, Kate.” Tony soothed. “I’m still breathing at least.”

            Reluctantly coming to the conclusion that a coughing-episode would have already begun if one was, in fact, really going to occur, Kate blushed slightly and awkwardly brought her fingers away from the cellphone blasting hits from the 80s.

            “Let’s get to the lipstick.” Tony encouraged, clearly wishing to clear some of the awkwardness away.

            “Right.” Kate obliged, hastily placing a large selection of just such a cosmetic unto the floor between them. “I’ve got matte, I’ve got shiny, I’ve got cream, and I’ve got satin. I’ve even got gloss and balm and plumpers, too.” She continued, touching each in turn. “All _you_ have to do is pick a color.”

            Thoroughly surprising Kate as he immediately snatched up a tube of creamy petal-pink lipstick, as every choice before then had taken him several minutes of deliberation to reach, Tony reverently uncapped the tube in his hand and brought it up to his eye to better examine the slight sparkle encapsulated within.

            “How about this?” He inquired, staring longingly at the skinny tube in his hand.

            “Gorgeous.” Kate assured. “And a good choice, too. You don’t want to have your lips and eyes competing for attention.”       

            Completely unsurprised as she watched Tony expertly swipe the color unto his very full lips, as it would have been beyond absurd for her to pretend as if he hadn’t already experimented with makeup at least a little bit before then, Kate feigned interest in her nearly-empty wine glass so as not to make him self-conscious and waited, somewhat impatiently, for him to finish so that she could speak without feeling awkward.

            “How does it look?” Tony pressed, after a long minute had elapsed with nobody speaking.          

            Despite feeling somewhat vain for experiencing such a self-important thought, Kate couldn’t help but honestly feel as if Tony’s face was some of the very best work she had ever done in such a field. Because not only were all the colors selected in full harmony with one another, despite Tony’s more adventurous tastes, so too were some of her friends most fabulous features more prominent and easy to enjoy.

            “You look great.” She hastily assured. “But how do you _feel_?”

            Watching in mild concern as her friend’s hopelessly expressive face twisted up in a garish expression of emotion she could not hope to ever fully-identify, Kate remained cautiously silent and delicately laid a hand on Tony’s knee, hoping to lend her support via touch as she knew her words would only fail her at the moment.

            “It’s just…”

            Not needing to be a genius to realize that her best friend had become quickly overwhelmed in the last several seconds, Kate acted instinctively and got up on her knees to cup his face in her hands.

            “It’s just as I thought,” She teased, “You’re fucking beautiful.”

            Rather than immediately draw a giggle out of Tony like she had hoped it would, or rather prayed that it would, the cheesy remark only seemed to wound her friend to quick. Although as to why, Kate couldn’t quite say.

            “Tony, we can take it all of if you want.” She offered, withdrawing her fingers from his face to reach for her makeup-removing wipes.

            Mildly alarmed when Tony none-too-gently slapped her hand away from the package she’d been reaching forward, Kate yelped loudly and hastily held both her hands up in a gesture of surrender and good will.

            “Tony, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you into this. We can just – “

            “You didn’t do anything.” Tony frowned, looking guilty as she rubbed at her smarting fingers. “It’s just…I shouldn’t be doing this. I should…It’s just too much – “

             

             

           


	3. Chapter 3

            While it was not often at all that Gibbs felt restless and in need of a distraction, as working away at his boat usually served to scratch whatever itch happened to be bothering him at the time, whether its existence be big or small, he had soon discovered, much to his great chagrin and annoyance, that he just couldn’t settle down that evening no matter _what_ he did. And, seeing as how it was a little too early to start getting into the bourbon, at least by _his_ new therapy induced standards, he had naturally seen no other real solution to the problem at hand other than to climb into his truck and head over to Tony’s place in the pursuit of ascertaining whether or not his son wanted to go and catch a movie at the new cinema downtown. Or, barring the very rare possibility that his boy wanted to stay in for the night, perhaps a simple game or two of Call of Duty on one of those newfangled gaming systems that he could never faithfully remember the name of. Because as much as Gibbs protested about the lack of accuracy in just such a game, the nature of which was _profound_ , he still found that shooting at make-believe hostiles on a screen with his son made for a good time – _especially_ when one considered the fact that this was a tamer activity that neither one of them could get hurt doing. Which, for someone of Tony’s grace and Gibbs’s age, was saying something.

            And while most people would have refrained from heading out into the darkening sky until they managed to get their child on the phone and convey to them their intentions, and subsequently figure out whether or not their company was wished for, Gibb’s didn’t bother to comply with such ceremony on the grounds that Tony, like him, never answered his phone on the rare weekend off unless somebody signified that it was an emergency by calling him twice. And so, rather than run the risk of frightening his child into thinking something awful had happened to his person, or that he was needed back at The Yard only six hours into weekend off, Gibbs simply gathered up his wallet and phone and set off towards his only son’s apartment building, stopping only for gas and a cherry slushy on the way.

            It was only when he pulled into the very familiar and well-maintained parking lot of Tony’s apartment building, that Gibb’s relatively-good mood dropped a bit. For, even though he was in full possession of the required keys needed to gain entry into the building and the apartment itself, objects whose existence he had been given access to long ago, the aggravating fact still remained that the half-crazy octogenarian who lived within the building, and fancied herself as security, was on the prowl for mischief and eyeing him with a decidedly suspicious and hostile air – which experience had shown him meant only one of two things. Either he was about to have the cops called on him for ‘suspicious’ behavior or else he was about to have a cupful of urine mixed with god knew what thrown on his car windshield. And, quite frankly, he didn’t much fancy either of those scenarios occurring.

            And so, with that thought in mind, Gibbs removed from his wallet a crisp fifty-dollar bill and rolled down his window, sticking both arm and money out into open air before wriggling both around madly in an attempt to catch the crazy woman’s attention and bribe her into behaving long enough for him to enter the building without being accosted by either cops or piss.

            Fortunately for the both of them, it didn’t take very long at all for the smelly vagrant to take notice of the bank note blowing in the breeze and stumble over to investigate the matter with a greedy, shit-covered hand, to investigate.

            “It’s yours, Gibbs.” Assured, trying hard not to breathe through his nose. “Just let me inside without causing any trouble.”

            Blinking queerly at him through wide, red-lined, eyes the color of grass, the unsettlingly disoriented woman frowned disapprovingly at him and sniffed dismissively before finally, _finally_ , accepting the money from his hand with two fingers and swaying off over to a large tree at the side of the building. Leaving Gibbs alone in relative peace to exit his vehicle and enter the overheated building unobstructed by anything other than the slightly-sticky lock and a pair of children’s shoes left in front of the door.

            Other than that, it was but the work of seconds to make his way up the three small flights of stairs to his son’s apartment and walk right in after unlocking it. Because aside from not believing in the concept of knocking when it came to visiting close family, which for him meant only Tony, the whole process of rapping on the thick door would have been rendered pointless, anyways, by the loud music currently blasting away within the apartment.

            “He’s going to go deaf.” Gibbs grumbled, respectfully kicking off his shoes and placing them beside Todd’s. “And he already doesn’t listen as it is.”

            But, rather than focus on such a frustrating aspect of his son’s character for very long, and thus run the risk of becoming grumpy and ruining the evening ahead, Gibbs simply pushed those aggravating thoughts out of his head and moved toward the closed bathroom door, effortlessly deducing that both of his agents must needs be inside judging by the light shining beneath the door and the music inarguably emanating from within.

            “I’m coming in.” Gibbs forewarned, his words lost in the oppressively loud beating of the music.

            And, with that, Gibbs gave the silver doorknob a turn and pushed his way into the bathroom without any additional warning whatsoever, both managing to accidentally knock the delicate cellphone playing music off the counter and onto the floor and likewise _also_ startling the usually reserved Kate badly enough to elicit a horrified banshee screech from her person. But while that particularly grating sound had certainly surprised him, _shocked_ him even, seeing as how it had come forth from _Todd_ of all people, it was the disquieting sight of his clearly agitated son wearing a _face full of fucking makeup_ that had Gibbs dropping his slushy to the floor in shock. Because battle-hardened Marine or not, there were simply some things in life that a father never expected to see. Like his only son decked out in evening makeup, for example.

            “Gibbs!” Kate cried, the first of his agents to recover and react by attempting to kick the door closed.

            Grunting softly as the weight of the door slammed into his shoulder with surprising force, given that it had been _Kate_ to kick it, Gibbs sucked in a calming breath and turned his head to glare sharply at the rouge agent who had just assaulted his person before pressing himself even further into the room in a display of both dominance and concern. Because even though every instinct within his body was rebelling against him and telling him to flee the scene, and thusly pretend as if nothing had even happened, the shameful hundreds of dollars he had already sunk into Vance-ordered therapy had at least managed to finally convince him that bottling up feelings and thoughts was patently unhealthy for not only himself, but those he cared about as well. For, after all, a contained vessel could only tolerate so much pressure before it exploded. And as much as he didn’t really care about the wellbeing of himself, as when he died he would finally be able to get back to Kelly and Shannon, he _did_ care about how his mental health affected his only remaining child.

            “Dad!” Tony spluttered, a desperate panic etched into his expressive features. “What are you doing here!?”

            Still _far_ too flabbergasted to make any real use of his voice, which was an exceedingly rare occurrence, indeed, Gibbs simply stood rooted to the spot and watched, with no small amount of bemusement, as Tony hastily brought a white rag up to his face to remove the incriminating makeup and promptly managed to only smear said gunk around on his face and stain the terrycloth rag in return.

            “What am _I_ doing?!” Gibbs finally managed, far louder than necessary given the sudden quietness that had descended upon them all. “What the hell are _you_ doing?!”

            Almost immediately understanding that he had somehow royally fucked up with that inadvertently accusative line of questioning _before_ Tony’s face crumpled dramatically and he quit the room, after promptly body-checking his father into the door in his haste to escape, Gibbs grimaced violently and prayed to whatever gods there might be that he could come back from a blunder like this and redeem himself. Because while his previous well-intended actions of confronting Tony a few years back with the powerful knowledge that he _knew_ he was gay, as opposed to waiting patiently for the boy to come to _him_ with such news, had, in the end, worked out well enough once some of the more serious kinks had been discovered and worked out, Gibbs somehow intrinsically knew that something like… _this_ wasn’t at all of the same magnitude of caliber.

            “GIBBS!” Kate squawked, face full of righteous indignation as she climbed clumsily to her feet. “What the hell!?”

            Fully prepared to defend his honor as a father in the only way he was really accustomed to, _yelling_ , Gibbs rounded on the impudent agent who had dared reprimand _him_ , of all people, and had opened his mouth to deliver one of his customary snarling chew-outs to her when he recalled, at the very last moment, that he had far more pressing matters to attend to upon hearing his son’s bedroom door being slammed shut with more drama than a D-list celebrity could ever hope to possess. Which meant, of course, that Tony was far more upset than Gibbs had initially dared to assume.

            _“Fuck.”_ Gibbs muttered, anger instantly deflated as his parental instincts kicked in.

            And, with that, Gibbs selfishly left Kate behind to both cower and clean up the mess of spilled wine as he hurried out into the hallway and over to his son’s closed bedroom door to rap impatiently on the cheap wood.

            “Tony,” Gibbs pleaded, pressing his ear against the door, “I didn’t mean to sound like I was…Look, I was just surprised, alright? I didn’t expect to see…Jesus, can I just come in?”

            Flinching slightly as a loud _thud_ burst forth from the cheap plywood in the telltale sign of a rogue projectile making contact with it, most likely a slipper or an alarm clock, Gibbs sighed and ran a weary hand down his face, wondering to himself, all the while, just how it was that Tony could manage to be so damn dramatic at times. Because even when one factored in the debate of nature versus nurture, neither he _nor_ Senior were emotional enough to have taught or passed down to said man that level of theatrics.

            “Tony, look, I really am sorry. I just…I wasn’t prepared for…I just wasn’t prepared, alright?” Gibbs coaxed, trying his hardest to be both honest _and_ tactful.

            Instantly feeling like a jackass as the sounds of muffled tears made themselves apparent to his notoriously-sensitive ears, as he _never_ enjoyed making anyone cry, despite many repeated claims to the contrary by ignorant individuals with any number of vendettas against him, Gibbs sighed heartily and cursed himself for managing to ruin his son’s evening in all of five minutes.

            “Honestly, Tony, you looked really good.” Gibbs persisted, perfectly honest yet more than just a little desperate. “I mean…I can’t say that I liked _all_ that gunk on your face, but still it looked nice. I was just…I was surprised, that’s all.”

            And honestly, that was the very crux of the problem now at hand. Because for as gruff and stern as Gibbs seemed to those who didn’t know him, he had absolutely no problems, _at all_ , with any man or woman who acted a little bit outside of their assigned gender roles – as his exceedingly close relationship with Ducky could very well vouch for. And, in fact, there was absolutely nobody else in the world who enjoyed RuPaul’s Drag Race more than _he_ did, even _after_ having endured that bullshit season wherein BenDeLaCreme eliminated herself for no goddamn reason. And, as such, the problem with Tony wearing makeup wasn’t the taboo experimentation in itself, but rather the fact that it had seemingly come out of nowhere and promptly bitch-slapped him in the face with its existence. For, at the end of the day, Gibbs had never dealt well with being surprised or caught off-guard given the great infrequency in which such events occurred.

            “Tony,” Gibbs cajoled, beginning to become desperate the longer his boy remained uncharacteristically silent, “ _Talk to me_.”

            “ _Go away!”_ Tony snapped, throwing yet another projectile at the bedroom door separating them.

            Flooded with the queerest sense of déjà vu as the _thudding_ sound reverberating through his sensitive ear and into his brain, as it seemed like just yesterday that a first-grader Kelly had barricaded herself in her bedroom and refused to acknowledge his existence after having been forbidden from attending a slumber party the very day after she’d been caught playing with one of his handsaws in the off-limits basement, Gibbs flinched before he could stop himself and was only somewhat comforted after such a childish display by the fact that Todd was still tucked safely away in the bathroom in an attempt to avoid his wrath.  

            “I’m coming in.” Gibbs announced, no longer able to tolerant the sounds of his son crying. “And you had best not launch anything at my face.” He added, more teasing than serious.

            And, considering that as fair a warning as any, Gibbs gave the silver doorknob a twist before pushing his way into the cozy bedroom without delay.

            To say that the sight that greeted him broke his heart would have been an understatement. For there, atop his thick mattress and atop all his quilts, lay a remarkably red-faced Tony with copious amounts of tear-relocated mascara smeared down his cheeks and dripping nose. And while that was, in itself, more than enough to effectively shame him into feeling even more of an asshole than he already did, the sounds his child made as he tried, and failed, to contain his sobs almost immediately had his stomach turned up in a twisted and guilty knot of anxiety and regret.

            “Tony,” Gibbs sighed, slowly climbing unto the mattress to lay beside him, “I really didn’t mean to make you feel badly about all…I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

            Stubbornly turning his face into one of the pillows below his head to avoid having to look at him, Tony snorted softly in a gesture of disbelief and likewise scooted further away from him.

            “Yes, you did.” The distraught young man complained, words muffled by pillow. “You don’t want a kid who’s gay _and_ does stuff like this.”

             Once more reminded of the single time in which a normally well-behaved Kelly had barricaded herself in her room and absurdly accused him of wishing she was a boy, all because he had grounded her for being stupid enough to play with a handsaw, Gibbs narrowly contained a bereaved sigh and forced himself not to angry with his boy for unknowingly mimicking behaviors Kelly had once exhibited.

            “Don’t go putting words into my mouth, Anthony.” Gibbs warned. “None of that is true in the slightest. I like you perfectly fine just the way you are.”

            Although, if he was being one-hundred-percent honest, Gibbs thought that some of the boy’s theatrical nature could, theoretically, be worked on and lessened to a certain, more tolerable, degree at some point in the near future with a little bit of therapy. Not, of course, that he would ever bring such a divisive subject up to his child when said man was already so clearly distraught.

            “You’re telling me that you wouldn’t rather have a son who plays football and likes fishing?” Tony scoffed, clearly too far gone in the throes of self-loathing to take note of the ridiculousness he was currently displaying.

            “You _are_ a son who likes fishing and playing football.” Gibbs patiently reminded. “Just because you’re gay and like…Just because you’re gay and like a little bit of makeup doesn’t exclude that.”            

            In fact, even Disney-Princess-Incarnate Kelly had more than happily dabbled outside her own gender-roles whenever the fancy had stricken her. A harmless handful of experimental incidences that had all but failed to phase him save for the one time she’d come home with a black eye after playing a game of tackle football with the older boys. And his ungraceful reaction in result of _that_ sudden and severe shift had been, just as it was with Tony and the makeup, sheer and unadulterated shock. _Not_ vehemence or disgust or whatever else his boy was warrantlessly accusing him of feeling at the moment.

            “You’d still rather have a manlier kid though, wouldn’t you?” Tony groused, full of pity for himself.

            Finally losing whatever little patience he had with his perpetually headstrong child’s unrepentant and habitual projecting of his own emotions unto innocent persons, especially whereas as _he_ was involved, Gibbs scowled and landed a rather sharp slap unto his son’s thigh – striking hard enough to cause a yelp to escape from the man’s yelp but not so forceful as to leave a mark behind.

            “Did I _not_ just tell you to stop putting words into my mouth?” Gibbs growled.

             Stubbornly refusing to feel badly as Tony poked out his bottom lip and rubbed at the sting currently radiating from his thigh, as the boy had inarguably earned himself such a mild rebuke with his mouth, Gibbs kept his expression firm and looked his son straight in the eyes.

            “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He repeated, the words clearly a warning.

             At first looking as if he might whine in response to such a mild assault, a grating behavior that Gibbs had never allowed to go unpunished for either of his children, Tony twisted up his pink lips into a perfect scowl and glared sharply up into his face with all the vehemence of a child who believed themselves to have just been unjustly punished and exhaled loudly through his nose. All this mere _seconds_ before he naturally-expressive face flooded with unnamable emotion and the waterworks began again.

            “C’mere.”  Gibbs encouraged, pulling the boy’s head to his chest.

            Good-naturedly allowing the man in his embrace to cry as openly as he wished into the white shirt protecting his chest, despite already knowing that the resulting makeup stains would never wash out, Gibbs rubbed at his son’s back as he patiently awaited the tears to run their natural course and taper off on their own after providing their natural catharsis.

            “C’mon now, it’s alright.” Gibbs hummed, patting his hair. “I meant what I said; I love you no matter what.”  

             Only clinging all the tighter to him in response to such a much-needed affirmation, Tony had his shirt thoroughly soaked with tears and snot within the space of ten minutes. But rather than groan in disgust as he might have done had anyone else tried to pull such emotional crap with him, and push the distraught man away, Gibbs simply tightened his embrace and calmly waited as the following ten minutes elapsed and brought the impromptu crying session to its natural end.

             “All better now?” Gibbs inquired, using his thumbs to wipe away the worst of the inky black tears still speckling his son’s cheeks.

            Nodding mildly as his makeup-smudged cheeks became tinged pink with mild embarrassment, Tony sniffled loudly and swiped impatiently at his eyes with the back of his hand.

            “I hope you know that you look like a fucking racoon now.” Gibbs grumbled, injecting a little humor in the situation.

             “You always say I eat like one,” Tony sniffed, “I might as well complete the look.”

            More than just a little relieved to find that Tony was more than just a little willing to meet him halfway in this, at least for the moment, Gibbs actually smiled as he sat up.

            “You up for some pizza?” He inquired, pulling out his phone.

             “Is that even a question?” Tony retorted, gradually sitting up himself.

            Giving his son a quick rolling of the eyes to show that insatiable appetite was nothing to be proud of, Gibbs shook his head and began to dial.

            “Go get that faced washed of.” He directed. “You look like a murdered hooker right now.”

             


	4. Chapter 4

            Despite having promised Tony that nothing at all had changed between them, other than the fact that said man now knew not to put words into his mouth, Gibbs soon found, much to his growing frustration, that his son almost immediately clammed up about his most recent experimentation with defying gender-norms the very same way he had when still struggling with the concept of being homosexual.  Because not only was Gibbs finding little clues regarding such strewn all over in the same manner he had when first suspecting his boy was gay, like fingernail polishes tucked away in file drawers and suspiciously curled eyelashes, rather than strange men’s clothing hastily stuffed beneath couch cushions whenever he came to visit unannounced, so too was Tony outrightly refusing to even acknowledge the very real need for a discussion on the topic of gender-confusion or whatever else one might like to call it. The latter of which worried Gibbs the most, as he knew, from copious amounts of experience, that bottling things of that magnitude up only lead to self-destructive behavior in the long run. But, acknowledging that fact, and knowing what to do about it, were two very _very_ different things. Which was precisely why he was having a clandestine breakfast meeting with Ducky on his back porch before the sun had even _thought_ of rising.

            “I must thank you for your efforts this morning, Jethro.” Ducky began, sipping leisurely at his chamomile tea. “I can tell you used the kettle to brew this, rather than utilize the abhorrent method of using the microwave.”

            “Only _you_ would be able to taste the difference between water boiled on the stove or water boiled in the microwave.” Gibbs grumbled, nibbling idly away on one of the blueberry muffins his closest friend had thought to provide.

            Calmly curling his long feet up unto the porch swing they were both currently seated upon, in a display of surprisingly flexibility that Gibbs could never hope to replicate, Ducky quirked a graying brow his way and tactfully brought the heated topic of proper tea-brewing to a premature end by posing to him one very simple question.

            “Tell me, Jethro, would you partake of coffee brewed in a fast-food establishment?”

            Frustratingly unable to concede that he would not, in fact, drink any such garbage without having first succumbed to madness, at least not without granting Ducky the victory in yet another one of their debates, Gibbs kept mum and feigned a sudden queer interest in the fat bumblebee that seemed to have taken an exceptional interest in the Scottish man’s yellow bowtie.

            “Jethro,” Ducky sighed, charitably opting to move their conversation forward despite being forbade a verbal confirmation of his victory, “Be a good mate and tell me why we’ve met at so ungodly an hour. Because, unless I am most egregiously mistaken, the circumstances of this little arrangement are more than just a little suspicious.”

            Taking a very long sip of his coffee as he pondered how best to broach the sensitive topic of his only surviving child actively dabbling in feminine activities, _without_ offending the touchy homosexual sitting next to him with his genuine concern, Gibbs fidgeted a bit with the mug in his hands and cursed himself for his own lack of eloquence.

            “I need to talk to you about Tony.” He finally managed, hating how simple he was making himself sound.

            “Well, _yes_ , I had gathered as much.” Ducky promptly assured, using his hand to gently shoo away the rogue bee molesting his bowtie. “What I need is more details.”

            Despite being a firm adherent of the school of thought which stated that a parent had every right to openly discuss the lives of their child with their closest and dearest of friends, provided that said companion agreed to keep all information divulged to himself, Gibbs still found himself faltering when it came time to provide Ducky with the requested information. Because, at the end of the day, he wasn’t about to just gripe about something simple like Tony’s seeming inability to remember to change the oil in his car without first needing several reminders to do so, or likewise his son’s stubborn refusal to visit the dentist more than once every five years, but rather about to divulge a pretty taboo facet of his only child’s life to someone said man hadn’t even considered worthy enough to speak to himself.

            “You already understand that whatever I’m about to say _stays_ between us, right?” Gibbs interrogated, impossibly protective of his child.

            “I should hope that with a friendship like ours that such a stipulation would go without saying.” Ducky calmly opined. “But if you feel it necessary to secure for yourself an explicit acceptance of such terms, very well. I promise you that whatever is revealed to me during this conversation shall stay with me and only me.”

            Never failing to be somewhat touched when it came to Ducky’s unflinching loyalty and trust of his person as, aside from Tony, he didn’t dare believe that anyone else would hypothetically help him to bury a body and take the secret to their graves, Gibbs felt himself relax somewhat in the face of such unyielding friendship and finally surrendered himself to the very real need of divulging some particularly troubling news to a friend.

            “I…I think, _maybe_ , Tony might be a little…a little confused.” Gibbs confessed, suddenly very interested in the freshly-mowed grass beneath his feet.

            “How so?” Ducky pressed, understandably still very confused as to what this impending conversation pertained to.

            Wavering momentarily on the dangerous precipice of divulging to his best friend in the world the uncomfortable gist of his suspicions, as he wished to protect his son’s dignity and privacy above all else, Gibbs nursed at his steaming coffee for an uncomfortably long time before finally, and reluctantly, coming to the conclusion that his was a burden in urgent need of relieving.

            “I think…I think he’s a hermaphrodite.” Gibbs confessed, whispering the last of the words.

            Because even though he intrinsically understood that the word, itself, was not of a filthy nature, nor the people who happened to be afflicted with such a disorder depraved deviants, Gibbs understood perfectly well that such a topic was a dangerously taboo one and, as such, deserving of the appropriate amounts of secrecy and privacy.

            “I beg your pardon,” Ducky spluttered, dribbling tea down his chin, “But what did you just say?”

            Somewhat concerned as his normally unflappable friend’s cheeks turned bright pink, as that was either a sign of intense anger or unshakable embarrassment whereas his person was concerned, Gibbs sat up straighter in the swing and braced himself for an impending blow. Because as much as said Scotsman liked to proclaim himself as a staunch pacifist, no matter the cause, he did have a history, no matter how slight, of resorting to punching a person in the jaw on the rare occurrences his wrath was kindled. As Gibbs had learned the exceedingly hard way the first, and last, time he had struck Jimmy hard enough to bring tears to the young man’s eyes.

            “You know,” Gibbs persisted, “One of those people who think they’re the opposite of what they are – like Chaz Bono.”

            “Jethro,” Ducky coughed, pink cheeks becoming even pinker, “I do believe that _transgender_ is the word you’re looking for. A _hermaphrodite_ is an individual who has two sets of differing sexual organs and characteristics.”

            More than just a little surprised to be informed that such a biological deviance did, in fact, exist and was not just a falsified disorder the older boys in his elementary school had concocted to better harass the sissier boys in the grades below them, Gibbs blinked stupidly and took an embarrassingly long time to process that little tidbit of information.

            “That’s not really a thing, is it?” Gibbs inquired, genuinely curious.

            “While hermaphroditism _is_ an exceedingly rare condition whereas humans are involved, it _is_ a recognized condition in the medical world, Jethro.”  

            Having unfortunately been made privy to the details of his son’s naked body more times than he could count, on account of said man having absolutely no shame at all, Gibbs was thankfully able to ascertain that hermaphroditism most certainly wasn’t a condition his son suffered from. At least not so far as he could tell.

            “Jethro, do tell,” Ducky encouraged, after enough time had elapsed to allow for their mutual embarrassment to disperse, “What makes you think that Anthony might be transgendered?”

            “I caught him with a face full of makeup.” Gibbs confessed, fixing his gaze on the persistent bumblebee who had returned to explore his friend’s bowtie.

            Despite being notoriously good at handling somewhat awkward situation, a trait that had no doubt developed after many long years spent in the medical field, Ducky took a good several moments to process the information that had just been delivered to him.

            “Perhaps Anthony is simply a man who enjoys wearing makeup.” Ducky finally suggested. “As exampled in that show you and he are both so fond of watching.”

            “Maybe…” Gibbs allowed, unable to keep the doubt of his voice.

             “Tell me, Jethro, has Anthony exhibited any other signs leading you to such a conclusion?” Ducky inquired, sighing softly as yet another bee came and harassed him for his fashion choices.

            Unable to meet his closest friend’s eyes as he thought of Tony’s suspiciously non-hairy armpits and legs, as well as the silken pink pajamas he had caught a glimpse of when visiting the boy unannounced, Gibbs stared stubbornly down at the grass and sighed, unsure of how to proceed with _anything_ anymore.

            “He has.” Gibbs confirmed, refusing to go into specifics. “So what do I do?”

            “I feel as if I must needs advise you, _once more_ , to simply wait for Anthony to come to you with his struggles.” Ducky decided. “Only this time I suggest that you actually do so.”  


	5. Chapter 5

            Despite having previously been informed, in no uncertain terms, that he most certainly was not welcome in his only child’s life anymore, in _any_ facet, Senior DiNozzo found the stipulations of such a one-sided contract both so absurd _and_ onerous that they forwent any real sense of respectability and, as such, the terms of such were both null and void. Which meant, as far as _he_ was concerned, that he had every right in the world to pay an unannounced social call to said child in order to invite him to his upcoming and most recent wedding to a very distinguished senator’s granddaughter. Because while Senior couldn’t rightfully claim to be missing his woefully strong-headed and ungrateful child, especially not after having been shunned so unceremoniously from his life without any warning, he _did_ want to hedge his bets in trying to get his progeny into politics as he, himself, had just so recently managed to do. For even if neither one of them managed to make it into the big leagues as senators, there was still a hell of a lot of money to be made as a representative, not to mention prestige. Neither of which Junior could ever hope to achieve at his current place of employment.

            He would, of course, have to get Tony back into the closest before such an important debut could take place. Because for as well as that meddling bastard Gibbs had managed to convince _his_ boy that being an uncloseted homosexual was perfectly acceptable, and not at all anything that needed to be kept on the downlow, Senior knew well enough to know that such abject immorality belonged in the dark if one ever hoped to lead even a semi-respectable life. Which was precisely why he’d squandered so much goddamn money during the boy’s childhood on corrective camps and boarding schools in the first damn place. That neither one of those dozens of establishments managed to do any real correcting at all by no means suggested that his heart had been in the wrong place – only his wallet.

            But rather than allow himself to become too enraged over such a failed endeavor, and thus run the risk of raising already dangerously-high blood pressure, Senior clamped down hard on his tongue to force feelings of a calmness he did not truly feel and refocused his train of thought unto much more palatable notions. Like Camp Restoration, for one. Said place being, of course, a top-notch corrective camp settled off privately somewhere in the heavily wooded area of Colorado. For, unlike all those other facilities he had shipped Tony off to, and subsequently squandered a small fortune on, this decorated establishment enjoyed more than just a mere handful of promising reviews by previous graduates. And while it also likewise employed more… _barbaric_ methods than he was entirely comfortable with to achieve those results, using electro-shock therapy rather than spiritual reprogramming, Senior felt as if he had spoiled his son long enough when it came to allowing his open homosexuality to go uncorrected for so long. It was, as they liked to say, time to put the metaphorical boot down. And if that meant blackmailing or guilt-tripping his boy until he agreed to attend the three-week camp, well, so be it. Men didn’t become men by being mollycoddled, after all. And, if Gibbs in any way thought to intervene in such a personal family matter, well, there was always ways to bribe a judge into declaring Tony medically unsound to make his own decisions. Not, of course, that Senior _hoped_ it would come to such drastic measures. He had never been a very big fan of paper work, after all.

            Nor had he ever been a fan or faithful adherent of seeking permission into his child’s personal space via knocking. Because if anyone had earned themselves the right of unfettered access to every aspect of Junior’s life, it was most certainly the man who had provided half of his biological DNA. And so, with that sound reasoning firmly implanted in his brain, Senior didn’t even so much as bother to rap on his child’s door before granting himself access to the apartment.

            To say that sight with which he was greeted upon entrance absolutely infuriated him would have been an understatement of the most egregious kind. For upon seeing his _son_ , his only fucking child, seated upon his living room floor with a boxful of cosmetics situated his feet as he applied pink lipstick to his already made up face, Senior’s blood pressure immediately rose to near-stroke levels and subsequently caused him to see so much red that even the laxest of communists would have been jealous.

            “Senior!” Tony gasped, green eyes immediately flooding with horror.

            Hastily kicking the door of Tony’s apartment shut with the heel of his boot, so that nobody could pass by and bare witness to such a shameful disgrace, Senior blinked rapidly and only became all the more enraged when such an action failed to change the unsavory image staring him straight in the face.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Senior growled, hastily advancing on his startled son.

             Clearly far too panicked to make any real response, just like the one time he’d been seven and kicked out of Cub’s Scouts for trying to kiss another boy, Tony simply shook his head in frantic denial of the situation and clumsily tried to kick the cardboard box full of incriminating evidence beneath the too-small gap beneath his couch.

            “I asked you a goddamn question, Anthony.” Senior barked, glaring down into his son’s face.

“It’s…It’s none of your business.” Junior suddenly recovered, rising slowly to his feet once the shock of being caught out had faded.

Having never been one to tolerate disrespect, especially from that of the child he had practically raised on his own, Senior felt his blood boil begin to boil fervently enough to raise his temperature. Because, rest assured, if that had been _him_ speaking to his father in that fashion, he would have been throttled to within an inch of his life. That Senior, himself, had only been so good to Tony to only strike him a handful of times throughout his childhood, if not less, was only a further demonstration as to why the ungrateful brat should be more reverent of his person. For, at the end of the day, had it been his grandfather left to raise him, the little bastard wouldn’t have survived the second grade.

“None of my business?!” Senior hissed, inching closer. “None of my business?!”

It was the angry and petulant glower he received in exchange of such rebuke that set him off and precipitated his next steps. Although, later, when he reflected upon such actions in the relative safety and quiet of his home, he would, admittedly, confess to himself that he most ardently regretted them.

 “None of my business!?” Senior thundered, seizing hold of a large hank of his son’s curly hair. “You _look_ at this and tell me it’s none of my business!” He thundered, yanking the younger man’s head toward a small mirror mounted on the wall. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re playing at!?”

 Struggling to remove himself from the iron-grip holding him hostage without removing several strands of his hair in the process, Anthony wriggled about like a fish out of water and clawed at his fingers until, at last, Senior was forced to release him in order to avoid any awkward questions being asked of him by his fiancée upon his return.

“I told you I never wanted to see you again!” Tony snapped, holding a hand to his stinging scalp. “You need to leave. _Now._ ”

More than just a little outraged at the idea of _his_ child giving _him_ orders, and so soon after being caught with a face _slathered_ in makeup, Senior felt the last vestiges of patience flee his person as he raised his hand and brought the back of it against Junior’s exposed cheek. And then, even when a small trickle of blood began to race down the man’s suspiciously smooth skin from where a ring had sliced it open, Senior landed his other hand in the exact same spot – too enraged by the pathetic look of misplaced betrayal he was receiving to think straight.

“You’re frustrating!” Senior snapped. “So goddamn frustrating!”

And, leaving a stunned Tony to hold his face and contemplate the inappropriateness of his actions, Senior stooped to gather up the small box crammed full with the offensive makeup and stomped off the kitchen, not knowing his child’s apartment well enough to know where else a suitable garbage can might be. It was only when he caught a glimpse of the objects he found most offensive of all, that being the pink lipsticks, that Senior changed his mind halfway through and instead began to chuck articles of makeup at the wall without prejudice, caring neither about noise complaints or security deposits as bright smears of color began to stain the white walls.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Tony snapped, having finally followed him into the kitchen. “I asked you to leave!”

Not in the least bit concerned as his only child threateningly advanced upon him, Senior lobbed yet another glass jar of goop at the irredeemably-stained wall before suitably constraining himself and tossing the rest of the box’s contents into the nearby garbage can. And though that action alone seemed more than enough to secure his son’s ire, Senior stomped his foot into the receptacle for good measure with all the confidence of a man who knew his child would never strike him back – no matter _how much_ bigger than his father he became.

“I just don’t know what to do with you anymore, Anthony.” Senior lectured, struggling to get his anger in check. “I’ve tried being nice and it just isn’t working. You get worse and worse every goddamn year and I can’t…I can’t handle it anymore.”

 “Senior – “Junior tried to interrupt, every bit just as impatient as he.

“ _DAD!”_ Senior corrected, yelling loud enough to rattle windows. “I AM YOUR _FATHER!”_

Gibbs could, of course, think differently all he cared to, but at the end of the day it was _his_ name on the boy’s birth certificate – which was all that mattered as far as fatherhood was concerned.

“You need…You need to take some vacation time.” Senior pressed on, removing a brochure from a pocket of his jacket to throw at the shameless man. “Just a few weeks or so. You can tell Gibbs you’ve…I don’t actually care _what_ you tell him, I just need you to go.”

Taking but a moment to breeze through the hefty brochure, as he was no doubt looking for the main points of such without being too overly concerned for the accompanying details, Tony’s expression gradually shifted from confusion to outrage.

“You want to sent me to a correction camp that uses electro-therapy!” Tony cried, looking offended to the point of tears. “Were the other camps not bad enough!?”

  “Apparently not!” Senior barked. “They didn’t fucking work!”

 And although he was far more enraged at the promises those camps had broken then he was about the money involved, Senior was still understandably annoyed about the vast sums those facilities had collected before doing absolutely nothing to help fix his child.

“Camp Reformation has had _thirteen_ other locations shut down.” Tony argued, crumpling up the brochure in his hand. “People have _died_ in those camps! And you still want me to go!?”

Although he honestly didn’t _want_ his son to have go through any such ordeal, or any person really, Senior couldn’t help but feel as if there were no other options at this point. For if Tony were left to his own devices that much longer, he had absolutely no doubts at all that his son would be waltzing around in dresses and chopping of his dick soon. And there was just no return at all from that sort of depravity.

 “It’s not really an option at his point!” Senior cried, genuinely bereaved. “I mean, for God’s sake, _look at you_!”  

And though Senior was _trying_ to be kind, he couldn’t help the amount of anger that crept into his words. Because, at the end of the day, it was just so very hard for a man such as him to feel compassion towards someone so…pathetic-looking.

“I don’t know why you care.” Tony defended, struggling to remain strong. “I don’t _want_ you in my life anymore. You can leave and have nothing to do with me. I won’t beg you to stay.”

Exceedingly frustrated with his son’s very clear inability to grasp the bigger picture, Senior lost his temper once more and seized hold of the simple-minded man’s collar.

“Listen here, Junior,” He hissed, “I don’t _care_ whether or not you want me as a father. Because I already _am_ , no matter how you feel about it. And, as such, what you do affects _me_. And I am not having…whatever _this_ is affect me.”

God, he could just picture the future headlines now; _Senator’s grandson-in-law has a cross-dressing child, Candidate-hopeful DiNozzo Sr. has transvestite child, State Representative DiNozzo’s son living in sin…_ It was all enough to make a grown man sick to his stomach.

“It’s not your choice anymore, I don’t want you.” Tony argued. “I don’t _need_ you.”

“ _Want_ has nothing to do with it.” Senior sighed. “And so long as I’m your father, that’s the end of it. And it’s the end of… _this_ , too.” He stipulated. “I mean, for God’s sake, you’re a _boy_. You do know that, right?”

Alarmed as a very loud and meaningful silence flooded into the small kitchen, Senior felt his stomach twist up in knots of anxiety and did the only thing he could think to do in response to such an implied and frightening confession.

“No.” Senior said simply, in full denial as he grabbed his son’s collar once more and yanked him over to the sink. “We’re not doing this.” He dictated, seizing hold of his son’s hair to cram his head into the sink. “This…This ends here.” He ordered, turning the hot water on at full blast before grabbing up a dish rag to scrub at his face. “I did _not_ raise you this way.” He lectured, scrubbing hard even as his son fought to get away from the steaming flow.

“GET OFF!” Tony thundered, finally managing to break away and shove him into the fridge.

Suddenly faced with the very frightening realization that his son might very well actually assault him one day, badly enough to warrant a hospital-trip given his sheer size, Senior refrained from slapping him once more but otherwise kept a neutral expression on his face to avoid given the man the absurd idea that he somehow had the higher ground in this fight.

“I asked you to leave.” Tony repeated, voice trembling with emotion.

“Listen here, - “

Untimely cut short as Junior took a large step forward to meet him halfway, Senior suddenly lost his voice and could only wonder, in silence, at just how large his son had grown over the years.

“You’re not my father anymore.” Anthony declared, green eyes shining with fierce anger and unshed tears. “And I don’t need you, either. You can leave my life. I don’t care _what_ you do. You can tell people you don’t even have a dau – a son, for all I care. But I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. I want you out of my life.”

“I can’t pretend that you aren’t mine!” Senior protested. “People already _know_ you exist!”

“I won’t apologize for existing.” Tony declared, his voice strong but trembling.

Despite being not at all satisfied with the way his visit had turned out, Senior had the good sense to understand when a temporary surrender was called for. Because if Tony had childishly allowed himself to get to the point where he was nearly crying, Senior was all but certain a phone-call to a frighteningly-buff Marine was not far off.

“You should be careful what you wish for.” Senior advised, turning his back on his only child. “One day I won’t be around to help you anymore.”


	6. Chapter 6

            For the first time in a long while having no real pressing concerns to attend to on a Friday evening, and likewise no frustrating case to impede his ability to relax, Gibbs found himself suddenly in the rare mood for a bit of watercoloring. For as much as he had always enjoyed creating his boats, as both a catharsis and memorial of sorts, the last few months he had been spending in therapy had slowly cut away at his grief-fueled need to create such elaborate and time-consuming monuments to his deceased family and had, instead, provided him with a much healthier outlet and hobby. Because even though the process of creating something via watercolor could be ten times more frustrating than crafting a boat, given that the mistakes were much harder to fix and the material oftentimes expensive as fuck, there was simply no opportunity for purposely harming himself via skinned palm and splinters when it came to his painting. Nor, he thought, was there any real opportunity for allowing his mind to wander and dwell on depressing thoughts when standing in front of his canvas and trying to capture the likeness of whatever was in his head – for example the stray fucking cat he had just adopted who seemed hellbent on switching her positions just as soon as he became brave enough to bring his brush to the paper.

            “Winnifred,” Gibbs sighed, “You’re an asshole. I hope you know that.”

            Glaring haughtily at him from her remaining light green eye, in a dismissive manner that served to convey perfectly well just how little she thought of his remonstrations, the ten-pound unit of pure white fluff growled lazily in his direction and flicked her tail in warning – effortlessly cowing her master into silence with that one act alone as such _always_ precipitated the need for Gibbs to receive emergency sutures from Ducky.

            “I could have left you in that drainage ditch, you know.” Gibbs grumbled, frowning as he watched the irredeemably spoiled cat lick at her freshly-brushed fur. “All I ask is that you hold still in return.”

            Actually managing to somehow fucking sigh, in a manner similar to that of a stuffy British aristocrat, Winnifred rudely and audibly farted in his direction before settling down into a remarkably regal pose whose existence was more than just a little laughable given the fact that she’d been loudly licking her netheregions not ten minutes ago.

            “Thank you, Your Grace.” Gibbs indulged, finally able to bring his paintbrush over to the canvas. “I’ll try to capture your elegance.”

            Sniffing loudly in order to convey to him that such a result had very well better happen if he didn’t wish for all the cheese in his refrigerator to be ransacked in the middle of the night again, or the taps in his kitchen sink left to be turned on all day the next time he left for work, Winnifred jerked her chin up proudly and graciously allowed him to go about the painstaking process of forming a basic outline of her doughy shape.

            It was only when he got to the fun part, that being the application of the little fine details that made everything come to life, that his cellphone rang and effectively prevented him from giving his deserving muse her trademark one-nostril nose. Because while he would have ordinarily ignored a call from _anybody_ while in the throes of artistic passion, especially Vance, the sounds of _Singing in the Rain_ alerted him to the fact it was his son calling – and Tony _never_ got ignored.

            “Hey, Kiddo,” Gibbs began, “What’s – “

            “Dad,” Tony interrupted, deep voice cracking, “Can you come over?”

            His concern over the fact that Tony had clearly been crying only magnified by the fact that he was likewise begging his father to come over to _his_ place, rather than simply getting into his car and driving over as was his usual wont, Gibbs practically flung his soiled paintbrush into the vase of water he’d been using as a makeshift rinsing station and hurried to collect his car keys from the hook in the kitchen.

            “I’ll be over in ten minutes, Kiddo.” Gibbs promised, hastily stepping into his shoes and nearly tripping as a result. “Just hang tight.”

            Meowing loudly in concern as she quickly trotted over to him with a speed that defied her massive girth, Winnifred stood up on her hind legs and inquisitively batted at his knee with one of her oversized paws.

            “Yeah, of course you’re coming with me.” Gibbs impatiently assured, quickly clipping a leash unto her collar. “We both know I can’t leave you here alone with cheese in the fridge.”

            Looking mortally offended at the very idea she was not to be trusted alone with cheese, despite her owner having _just_ shelled out three hundred dollars on a vet bill to free her of a particularly nasty and dairy-related bowel obstruction, Winnifred hissed loudly and gave his ankle a warning nip.

            “We don’t have time for this.” Gibbs sighed, opening the door. “Tony needs us.”

            Thankfully more concerned about the wellbeing of her grandmaster than her honor, at least for moment, Winnifred reacted accordingly to the seriousness of the situation by jogging with Gibbs to his truck as quickly as her stubby and malformed legs would allow. In fact, so legitimately concerned was she about her second most favorite person in the whole entire world that the notoriously dignified cat even allowed him to place her in the passenger seat rather than take the several minutes required to finesse herself up into such a space without the bother of unneeded assistance.

            “I think you’ve earned yourself some chicken tonight.” Gibbs promised the irredeemably pudgy creature. “Maybe even a little chee – “

            _“MEOW!”_ Winnifred cried, nipping at his elbow.

            “Alright!” Gibbs cried, jabbing his keys into the engine. “I’m _going_.”

            And, with that, Gibbs was off like a bank robber fleeing the scene, his regard for speed limits and stop signs of but little considerations as he raced towards his son’s apartment building several blocks away. Thankfully for all persons involved, especially fellow commuters and pedestrians alike, the roads were nearly empty for that time of early evening, enabling him to arrive in ten minutes rather than the usual fifteen safe-driving required.

            “Come on.” Gibbs encouraged, holding his arms out to the cat just as soon as he had wedged his truck into a suitable parking spot.

            Wasting no time whatsoever with her usual arrival-centered grooming session, Winnifred hopped gracelessly into his arms and meowed only once to show her distaste for such an undignified method of transport before repositioning herself to rest the upper portion of her body over his shoulder to better allow him to jog without jostling her all too much.

            “There.” Gibbs panted, making his way to the desired apartment in seconds. “You can get down now.”

            More than happily obliging him with such a request, Winnifred launched herself right off his person without any regard to the way her nails sliced the skin of his shoulder, so intent was she on proving herself independent.

            “ _Meow!”_ She impatiently ordered, clawing at the correct door.

            “Yeah, you’re not so fucking useful without any thumbs, are you?” Gibbs taunted, making a great show of opening the door with his opposable digits.

            Earning for himself a devilish bite of the ankles for such unpardonable rudeness, Gibbs flinched reflexively and cursed loudly as he looked down to discover that the furry ingrate he had adopted had taken a good chunk out of his skin without any significant effort on her part.

            “Asshole.” Gibbs cursed, swiftly pulling up his sock to contain the blood flow.

            _“Meow.”_ Winnifred angrily rebuked.

            Immediately reminded of the whole entire reason he had even left his house so late in the evening as he looked up from his bleeding ankle to find a sobbing Tony curled up on the couch with a pillow pressed to his face, Gibbs quickly abandoned his wound to it’s own fate and hastened across the apartment to kneel in front of his distraught child.

            “Tony,” Gibbs frowned, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Look at me.”

            Clearly far too worked up to comply with such a simple request, Tony pressed the soft pillow even closer to his face and didn’t even so much as flinch as Winnifred assailed him with her full weight by jumping onto his legs. And though Gibbs was more than just a little willing to allow a person their desired method of displaying their emotions, so long as such an act didn’t harm any property or person, he found himself unable to ignore the very real concern that his boy might inadvertently smother himself during such a meltdown with so much fabric pressed over his nose and mouth. A concern Winnifred also very clearly shared as she was frantically attempting, and failing, to remove the offending object with her teeth.

            “Tony.” Gibbs cajoled, extracting the pillow from his boy’s hands as gently as he possibly could. “It’ll be o – _What the_ fuck _happened to your face_!?”

            Flinching pitifully at the sudden raise in his father’s volume, Tony’s bottom lip likewise trembled dangerously as he raised a shaking hand to make a poor attempt at concealing the small cut on one cheek and the growing bruise on the other.

            “What happened, Anthony?” Gibbs growled, feeling himself flying into full Papa-bear mode. “Just give me a name, that’s all I need.”

            Because even if it took him harassing McGee this late in the evening to get an accompanying address, the person(s) responsible for putting those marks on his son were going to have the inconvenience of dealing with several unprofessional amputations before his anger was properly assuaged.

            “S-S-Senior.” Tony spluttered, entirely inconsolable as he swiped at his flooding eyes and left behind two matching streaks of mascara to stain his cheeks. “He – He just walked in.”

            Unable to keep his blood pressure from rising as that sorry-excuse-for-a-man’s name was brought up within his hearing, Gibbs scowled and clamped down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood before taking several deep breaths to calm himself for Tony’s benefit. Because after a hellish evening like the one his boy had just clearly experienced, the last thing _he_ needed to do was make his son afraid that he was likewise just as angry with him.

            “But how did you get those marks on your face?” Gibbs inquired further, seating himself at Tony’s feet to rub at his back. “Did you two get into a fight?”

            And though he felt more than just a little ridiculous for asking such a stupid question, because _of fucking course_ there had been some sort of physical altercation that evening, Gibbs found such an inquiry necessary in ascertaining whether or not his child had finally given his sperm-donor what he deserved by striking him back for once. Because if _any_ of the dozens of people who had hurt his son deserved a little bit of retribution, it was most definitely that wretch.

            “We didn’t fight.” Tony confessed, green eyes overflowing with salty moisture as he sat up and repositioned himself so that his head now rested in his father’s lap. “He just…He was angry.”

            And even though Gibbs didn’t _need_ to ask the following the question, as the makeup smeared down his son’s face was more than enough to provide him a confirmation of his assumptions when paired with his first glimpse of the kitchen wall upon entry, he found his mouth moving on its own accord – almost as if his subconscious was inwardly pleading for him to be wrong and for this whole disaster in front of him to have resulted from a simple misunderstanding and not a place of hatred. Because, at the end of the day, mistakes were the easier of the two to fix.

            “What got that asshole worked up enough to think that he could hit you?”

            “What else?” Tony sniffled, full of self-loathing as he clutched a surprisingly complacent Winnifred to his chest and cried into her fur. “His son is a confused faggot.”

            Flinching sharply in response to such a hateful word, as it had grated on his ears even _before_ Tony or Ducky had come out to him, Gibbs inhaled sharply and overcompensated for such an alarming action by squeezing his son tightly before moving on to smooth his ruffled hair.

            “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” Gibbs began, still stroking the oddly-damp curls with careful administrations, “That man is _not_ your father. _I_ am. And if you think I’m going to just sit here and listen to you call yourself a…call yourself _that_ , you’re out of your goddamn mind, you hear me?”

            Although Tony still continued to cry profusely into Winnifred’s fur in a stubborn refusal to look him in the fact, Gibbs continued on with the slight encouragement of believing himself to have caught his son’s attentions judging by the way said boy had stiffened in his lap.

            “And what’s all this nonsense about being confused?” Gibbs scoffed. “You enjoy makeup, _so what_? There’s nothing confusing about that.” He persisted, gingerly swiping the small smear of blood of his son’s cheek with two gentle fingers. “And there isn’t anything _wrong_ with it either. It’s what you like to do and it isn’t hurting anyone – which is the only thing that matters.”

            “But…What if there’s even _more_ wrong with me?” Tony asked, full of anguish as he squeezed Winnifred hard enough to earn a warning hiss.

            “Tony, there is absolutely _nothing_ you could throw at me that would make me stop wanting you as a son.” Gibbs avowed, swiping at the tears as they dripped down his son’s reddened face. “You’re _mine_ , whether you like it or not.”

            Managing a watery smile in response to such a heartwarming threat, Tony sniffled loudly and slowly sat up far enough to allow himself to place his head on the armrest of the couch rather than his father’s lap – clearly seeking a little bit of independence even while he greedily sucked in the comfort being so freely given to him. A need Gibbs was more than happy enough to oblige as he held the actively crying man closer and closer to his person.

            “Come on now.” Gibbs encouraged after a long ten minutes had elapsed with his son’s tears only tapering off slightly. “No more tears. Go and get your hairbrush.”

            Understandably confused at what was seemingly a very random order, Tony frowned and turned his head to look quizzically up at him.

            “What – “

            “I told you to go get your hairbrush.” Gibbs repeated, landing a very mild slap on the man’s thigh. “Don’t make me ask a third time.”

            Clearly far more concerned about the wellbeing of his thigh and bottom than he was genuinely curious about such a peculiar request, Tony practically launched himself off the sofa in his haste to collect the required object from his bathroom and earned an indignant yowl from the cat he had so unceremoniously dislodged from his person without warning.

            “Be _nice_.” Gibbs implored the disgruntled beast. “He’s _sad_.”

            Clearly none to keen on making any such promise, as her temperament was far too touchy and reactionary to faithfully allow for such harsh stipulations to be applied to her person, Winnifred snorted disgustingly loud and trotted off into Tony’s kitchen to no doubt search for cheese.

            “I got the brush.” Tony announced, slinking back into the room with the requested object in his hand. “Here.”

            More than just a little grateful that Tony was now able to surrender a hard object into his hands without first asking if he was about to be stricken with it, as said question had never failed to make Gibbs feel homicidal toward Senior, Gibbs accepted the grooming item with a small smile before pointing to the floor at his feet.

            “Sit.” Gibbs directed, tossing the tear-soaked pillow unto the floor.

            By that point in their relationship too well-trained and trusting to go against such a basic order, Tony obediently plopped himself down unto the cushion provided and instinctively settled himself between Gibbs’s legs – just like Kelly used to do after a long day at school or after a long stretch of horseback riding.

            “Let’s get these nasty snarls out, hmm?” Gibbs hummed. “Then we can have ourselves a little movie night.”

            Granting him permission via a timid nod, Tony grabbed yet another couch pillow to clutch to his chest before finally closing his eyes and allowing his father to gently run the black hairbrush through his half-curls again and again until, at last, the remainder of his tears were gone and the redness in his face vanished completely. It was then, and only then, that Gibbs set the brush aside with the heartwarming knowledge that a good hair-brushing session would always serve to soothe his son just as it had once done for his daughter.


	7. Chapter 7

            Despite having been more than just a willing to sleep on the sofa so that his son and cat could have the queen-sized bed to themselves, as well as a little bit of privacy, Gibbs still found himself waking up at dawn on the very edge of the mattress with an oaken end-table digging mercilessly into his shoulder and with a mouthful of fluffy cat tail. But rather than bother with the hassle of trying to wake a dead-asleep Tony long enough to convince him to scoot over and relinquish some of the blankets, and thus run the risk of waking and provoking the chronically irritable Winnifred into taking yet another bit out of his ankle, Gibbs charitably sacrificed the additional half-hour of sleep he had been hoping to steal that Saturday and crept slowly off the bed before meticulously rearranging his slight portion of the thick quilt back around his son’s snoring frame, not wishing for the boy to catch a chill due to any negligence on his part. Because even though it had been several years since his favorite agent had caught the plague, Gibbs never liked to take chances when it came to his immunocompromised child. No matter _how_ absurd and overprotective Ducky accused him of being at times.

            “Dad…” Tony mumbled, bruised cheek pressed firmly up against a pillow. “What’re you doing? The sun isn’t even up.”

            “Marines start their day a little earlier than the sun.” Gibbs patiently reminded the half-asleep man, tugging the blankets back over his shoulder. “I’m just going to make some coffee. Go back to sleep, Princess.”

            Despite the marked oddness of the term of endearment he had chosen to use, as a sort of tiptoe into some much-needed boundary testing, Tony obeyed the simple order to return to sleep without complaint and pressed his battered face back into his pillow – his long lashes coming to rest against his bruise cheeks mere seconds before his full lips parted to allow a series of loud and undignified snorts to escape his throat and fill the room with his jarring snores. A fact that seemed to bother Winnifred but little as she lovingly curled up beneath Tony’s smooth chin and added her own dinosaur noises to the mix.

            _‘I should really get those two checked for allergies.’_ Gibbs thought to himself, slowly retreating from the bedroom to make his way into the kitchen. _‘They sound like bears.’_      

            But rather than trouble himself unnecessarily with the planning of visits to both doctor and vet, as both such appointments could wait for a more peaceful time to arrive, Gibbs simply went about the well-practiced motions of getting a pot of coffee brewing before moving to the sink to grab a suspiciously makeup-stained rag from the sink. It was only as he applied a generous dollop of dish-soap to the hopelessly stained square of fabric that he finally filled in the blanks of what _else_ had happened the previous night. For aside from the bruised face that had very plainly indicated his boy had either been punched or slapped, _repeatedly_ , the small scratches that covered Tony’s entire face had, up until that point, remained a mystery to him until he saw the evidence of the crime smeared on the rag and in the sink.

            _‘I’m going to have Winnifred geld that bastard.’_ Gibbs avowed to himself, forcing himself to take several deep breaths before approaching the cosmetic-damaged wall with the soapy rag. _‘And then I’m going to force-feed him own dick.’_

            Of course, that would all have to wait until _after_ Tony was lulled into the false sense security that his biological father _wouldn’t_ be brutally and righteously murdered via one very angry Marine. For as much as said reprobate most certainly deserved to have his hairy ass handed to him, several times over, Tony was far too sensitive and empathetic a person to allow such a thing to occur with his knowledge. Which was the _only_ reason Gibbs was scrubbing makeup off a kitchen wall instead of flaying a dumbass with the dullest nail-file he could get his hands on.

            Thankfully for the sake of his out-of-control coffee addiction, the cleaning of the wall took far less time than Gibbs had originally thought it would - the happy result of that little fortune being, no doubt, attributed to the fact that his sheer rage had prompted him to move even faster than he normally would have.

            _“Meeeowww.”_

            Sighing loudly as he finished filling his mug with coffee, Gibbs rolled his eyes before turning to greet the troublemaking cat with the customary good morning scratch beneath the chin she had become so accustomed to.

            “I’ll get some scrambled eggs started if you go and wake Tony.” Gibbs bargained, giving the nub of her missing ear a stroke for good measure. “ _Gently_ though, he’s had a long night.”

            Waiting only until she’d received a second scratching of her ear nub to trot off towards Tony’s bedroom, Winnifred purred loudly and subsequently left Gibbs with the comforting knowledge that he wasn’t the _only_ one to love Tony like one of his own – even _if_ Her Royal Highness sometimes drove the both of her humans crazy with her fierce overprotectiveness of the younger man. Although, if he was being perfectly honestly, the domineering manner in which the furry beast enjoyed corralling an overly-exhausted Tony to bed via ankle nips _was_ admittedly useful at times.

            “Dad,” A disgruntled whine soon sounded behind him, “I was _sleeping_. Why did you send Winnie in after me?”

            Giving Tony a warning growl that perfectly conveyed that he had better stop being so damn cheeky with her master, as well as so unforgivably familiar while addressing her, Winnie nipped savagely at the younger man’s exposed ankles and glared pointedly at the kitchen table until her grandmaster took the not-to-subtle hint and planted his ass in a chair.

            “Because she’s better at getting your ass out of bed then I am.” Gibbs calmly replied, methodically stirring the eggs so that they didn’t clump into one solid mass. “Now, how does your face feel?”

             Because as ridiculous as it might sound to other parents, Gibbs was fully prepared to call Ducky over to come and take a look at the small cut on one of Tony’s scratched up cheeks, his worries about infection and gangrene always at the forefront of his mind now that his child’s immune system had been so damnably compromised by the plague.

            “It’s just a little sore.” Tony confessed, bringing his fingers up to the skinny scratch just below his eye.

            “Don’t pick at it.” Gibbs immediately scolded, dishing out the eggs he had scrambled into three separate bowls. “You’ll get an infection.”

            Hastily withdrawing his fingers from the slender abrasion now decorating his cheek alongside several finger-shaped bruises, Tony sat up straighter in his chair and sipped investigatively at the mug of coffee Gibbs had left atop the table before scrunching up his face in disgust and pushing the offending beverage away from himself.

            “I don’t know why you keep trying coffee, Princess.” Gibbs mumbled, pouring out a glass of orange juice for the kid. “It’s clear you don’t like it.”

            Failing spectacularly to hide the way his naturally-expressive face flooded with unadulterated joy at being addressed in such a manner, Tony blushed spectacularly and frantically hide his face behind the newest edition of _The Game Times_ that had arrived just that morning.

            “You want any toast with your eggs, Kiddo?” Gibbs moved forward, not wishing to push _too_ hard with the pronoun testing just yet.

            “Just eggs, please.” Tony politely requested. “We had a lot of popcorn last night.”

            “ _You and Winnifred_ had a lot of popcorn last night.” Gibbs corrected, placing the bowls of eggs unto the table. “I had a few handfuls.”

            Appearing entirely unapologetic about her gluttonous ways, Winnifred chittered loudly up into Gibbs’s face before leaping up unto the kitchen table to enjoy her breakfast of human food with all the dignity a bowl on the floor couldn’t provide. And, seeing that as an easy out from discussing his _own_ ravenous appetite, Tony likewise dug into his breakfast with all the gusto of a starving man.

            “You have the table manners of a toddler.” Gibbs sighed, shaking his head at Tony.

            “At least I don’t need a bib.” Tony quipped, funneling food into his mouth.

            “That’s debatable.” Gibbs returned, taking a long sip of coffee.

            Pausing from his fervored eating long enough to stick his tongue out at his father, and subsequently earn a warning hiss from Winnifred in response to such sass, Tony sipped slowly at his orange juice and otherwise remained exceedingly respectful throughout the rest of their shared morning meal. It was only once the table was cleared, and the dishes placed in the dishwasher, that Tony started speaking again.

            “What’s in the bag, Dad?”

            Despite being perfectly aware of which plastic grocery bag his child was referring to, Gibbs still found that his eyes automatically followed the direction of Tony’s finger and landed on the conspicuous item resting near the microwave.

            “It’s your makeup, sweetheart.” Gibbs divulged, happily surrendering the bag into Tony’s possession. “I saved what I could but a lot of it was too mangled to salvage.”

             “It’s okay.” Tony swiftly assured, peeking into the bag. “Most of it was cheap stuff anyways.”

            “It’s _not_ okay, Senior had no right to do that to your things. _Or_ you.” Gibbs protectively persisted. “And he’s just lucky that – “

            Kept from vividly detailing all the things he would like to do to Senior in justified retaliation as Tony spontaneously wrapped him a large hug without warning, Gibbs grunted softly at the surprising force but nonetheless returned the embrace.

            “Thanks, Dad.”

             “No problem, Tony.” Gibbs grumbled, patting his back a few times before gently extracting himself from the hug. “Now why don’t we head into the living room so you can show me how all this stuff works.”

             “You really want to see!?” Tony asked, green eyes going wide with excitement.

             “Of course.” Gibbs assured. “If it’s something you’re into, I want to know about it.”


	8. Chapter 8

            Despite having started out his afternoon fairly confident of the fact that he could wax his own damnably hairy legs without and problems _or_ assistance, as even the irredeemably distractible and careless Abby had laid claim to being able to do so without any major disasters taking place, Tony had soon found, much to rising sense of horror and embarrassment, that he had been most egregiously mistaken. Because even though he had been exceedingly meticulous when reading the instructions provided in the kit, as they had oddly been written in Spanish rather than English despite the kit’s origins, the wax he had heated up in the microwave as instructed had _not_ gone on ‘gently’ as the box had asserted it would. Rather it had gone on unapologetically rough and agonizingly painful as the suspiciously thin yet waxy fluid had spilled off its applicator and unto his exposed leg to cling unforgivably to both hair and skin alike.  And though Tony had instinctively tried to get the flesh-burning wax off just as quickly as possible, before any third-degree burns could result, he had quickly discovered that neither a rag nor his fingernails could do the trick. And while that, in itself, was more than enough to cause him to panic and contemplate the intelligence of trying to use a scissors to cut the hardened mass off, it was only once he realized the futileness of such an act that he surrendered his pride and called his father over.

            “What the fuck were you thinking, Anthony Angelo!?” Gibbs thundered, glaring down into his face as he cowered on the closed toilet seat. “This wax is _clearly_ some knockoff shit from some third world country!”

            Having already contemplated his own stupidity for purchasing the waxing kit from some shady online retailer _several_ times in the half-hour it had taken for disaster to strike and set in, Tony frowned up into his father’s face to show his displeasure at being so needlessly rebuked only to immediately avert his gaze back to the tiled floor upon seeing all the irritation and rage in said man’s piercing blue eyes.

            “Abby said – “

            “Abby thinks that the fucking positions of planets and stars can affect a person’s luck and behavior.” Gibbs snapped, looking dangerously close to headslapping him into oblivion.

            More than just a little surprised to hear Gibbs, of all people, being so dismissive of Abby, as she was, without a doubt, one of his favorite people in the world, Tony blinked stupidly and frantically tried to come up with an explanation that might serve to mollify his enraged father and likewise avoid receiving a concussion-inducing slap to the back of the head.

            “I read the instructions.” Tony tried, hoping to secure a little leniency for himself.

            “Yeah?” Gibbs growled, snatching up the crumpled pamphlet of instructions to brandish it in his face. “The fucking instructions that tell you to put already melted wax in the fucking microwave for thirty seconds before putting it on your goddamn legs!?”

            “Forty!?” Tony grimaced. “I thought it said _sixty_!”

            Far too troubled with the pain in his leg to spare anything more than a few seconds to feeling mild annoyance that his Spanish, while honed under Gibbs, was still unrefined enough to mistake numbers and colors on occasion, Tony groaned audibly and tried his hardest not to kick Ducky in the face as said man poked and prodded his leg without any real consideration to the pain and discomfort that such an act was causing.          

             “Do try and calm yourself, Jethro.” Ducky encouraged, looking none too disheveled despite having been awoken from an afternoon nap by an ornery Marine demanding his medical expertise. “I don’t believe an absence of twenty seconds would have lessened the severity of this situation one bit. The wax, in itself, already seems potent enough _without_ any heat added to it.”

             Thankfully appealing to his friend’s authority on the subject of levels of culpable stupidity, Gibbs seemed to deflate somewhat before moving onto one of the more concerning thoughts clearly troubling his person.

            “Does he need to go to the hospital?” Gibbs fussed, kneeling down beside the Medical Examiner to stare at his child’s leg.

            Giving the waxy mess on Tony’s leg one last investigative poke, and subsequently flooded his patient’s person with a fierce and stinging pain, Ducky tutted a bit beneath his breath but nonetheless shook his head after a short pause.

            “I should think not.” The Scottish man calmly assured. “Although the wound _does_ look a bit rough, it’s a slight second-degree burn at worst. We need only remove this wax and flush the damaged skin with water before bandaging it to keep any dirt out. Having done just that, he’ll be perfectly fine in a few weeks or so, albeit a bit uncomfortable given the location of the burn.”

            Already dreading the way he knew his trousers would rub up against the burn whenever he walked, or worse yet – chased after a perp, Tony groaned loudly and wondered if, perhaps, Senior was correct in his endless assertions that he really was a full-fledged moron without any sense. Because now that his thrill and excitement at having bare legs had been replaced with the mortification of burned flesh, he could easily see the stupidity behind putting such an unfamiliar smear of product on his skin without at least spot-testing it first on a less sensitive area.

            “The wax won’t come off.” Tony protested, looking to a mildly disapproving Ducky rather than his angry father. “I _tried_.”

            More than just a little content to ignore Tony’s whining, as he had _never_ been one to tolerate such grating behavior, especially in his child, Gibbs simply rose to his feet and rummaged through the drawers beneath the sink before finding, and extracting, a bottle of baby oil and a package of cotton rounds.

            “Shannon used to make candles as a hobby.” Gibbs explained. “I _know_ how to get wax off skin.”

            And, thus stated, Gibbs kneeled back down on the floor beside Ducky to work away at the wax coating Tony’s legs with gentle strokes and administrations of baby-oil soaked cotton. But while his father’s face took on an expression of seriousness as he labored away, Ducky thoroughly confounded Tony by wearing an amused smirk entirely inappropriate to the situation at hand. Something Gibbs seemed more than happy to ignore up until the point the Scottish man had to clamp down on his bottom lip to keep a full-fledged grin off his face.

            “What’s so funny, Mallard?” Gibbs inquired, picking up a manicure scissors to gently cut away some of the now-softened wax clinging stubbornly to Tony’s leg hair.

            “Oh nothing.” Ducky poorly deflected, refusing to meet his friend’s gaze. “I suppose I just took mild amusement from the fact that Shannon evidently used you as a work table for her crafts. It seems I believed such treatment would be far too undignified for a person such as yourself. Unless, of course, the candles were used in quite another way al – “

            Not at all surprised as Gibbs landed a mild punch to Ducky’s shoulder in retaliation for referencing activities that he may, or may not, have done with his wife in the privacy of his own bedroom, Tony still blushed profusely and struggled to get several examples of unsavory images out of his head as Ducky choked on his poorly-concealed laughter and socked Gibbs on the forearm in retribution.

            “Now, now, Jethro.” Ducky hummed, raising a brow at Gibbs as said Marine raised his fist to deliver another only-somewhat-playful punch. “Do you really want to assault the man who is working so vigorously to save your child’s skin from scarring?”

            “Are you seriously using my daughter’s wellbeing against me?” Gibbs growled, bringing the manicure scissor dangerously near Ducky’s left eyeball.

            Absolutely flooding with embarrassment, as well as warmth, as his father just casually referred to him as his _daughter_ , rather than the usual and more socially-acceptable _son_ , in front of his closest friend, Tony felt his face turn oppressively hot in the space of seconds and only wished he had a pillow, or something, to conceal, his discomfort with. Because even though had already been certain of the fact that his Dad had revealed to the Medical Examiner his struggles with gender-identity, it was more than just a little uncomfortable to have those issues brought out into the open while he was there to witness them.

            “Easy now, Jethro.” Ducky soothed, batting the offending and sharp object away from his person with no more concern than he would pay a dust mite. “You know Tony is always in good hands with me. Although, I can’t say the same for the opposite.”

            More than just a little indignant at the idea that Ducky was somehow endangered by his frequent need for medical attentions, as he usually only lashed out at the man whenever he tried to take him by surprise, Tony frowned and forget his early embarrassment in favor of full offense.

            “You’ve got to give me a warning when you come at me with doctor stuff.” Tony huffed, having repeated the same requirement to Ducky several times already. “I’m like a horse, I’m going to kick if I’m startled.”

            “If I don’t take you by surprise, lass, you _bite_.” Ducky calmly argued. “And I much prefer a swift kick the leg in lieu of prying my fingers out of your mouth.”

             Wisely sensing that he had already lost argument, likely before it had even begun, Tony sighed and looked to his father for assistance, only to be met with a blank expression that meant Gibbs wasn’t about to go and get himself involved in such a harmless squabble unless it somehow became necessary for him to do so.

            “Ah, don’t be too overly sour with your uncle, Anthony.” Ducky implored, giving his unburned thigh a gentle pat. “I promise to take you to a wondrous spa whose employees excel at waxing if only you forgive me my teasing.”

            “It’s not really teasing if it’s true, I suppose.” Tony sighed, unable to stay angry for very long at his uncle-figure. “But I’m not ready for spas just yet.”

            In fact, he wasn’t even ready for anybody besides Gibbs and Ducky to know that he had such a peculiar problem in the first place – not even his _friends_.

             “Whenever you’re ready, then.” Ducky hummed, finally able to apply bandages once the last of the wax was removed by Gibbs. “And not a moment sooner.”

            “Thanks, Duck.” Tony smiled. “You’re the greatest.”

            “I’m _right_ here.” Gibbs grumbled. “You do know that, right?”

            “Don’t worry, Dad.” Tony swiftly assured. “You’re still the _best_.”

            Thankfully appeased by such a verbally-issued correction, if not a little smug, Gibbs awarded him with a slight smile before leaving to walk Ducky to the door – leaving Tony alone to contemplate the very warm and fuzzy feelings he had experienced at being so casually referred to as a girl.

            “Alright, Princess.” Gibbs grumbled, startling Tony with his sudden return. “Let’s get those legs shaved.”

            “But – “

            “That wasn’t an option.” Gibbs interrupted, gathering the necessary supplies. “And I don’t trust you at the moment to do it on your own.”

            Knowing better than to argue with his father about such a decision, as Gibbs could be quite stubborn when it came to his safety, Tony frowned but nonetheless allowed the Marine to tackle his legs with a pink razor.

            “Dad?” Tony began, feeling the need to fill the silence.

            “Yeah?” Gibbs grunted, carefully maneuvering the razor.

            “Can we play some Halo after this?” He requested.

            “If you promise not to whine like a baby when I change your bandages tonight, then yes.” Gibbs allowed.

            Despite being fully aware of the fact that Gibbs already _knew_ he was going to whine when it came to the bandages, Tony _did_ avow to himself to keep it at a minimum given how much his father had been doing for him of late.

            “Can we stalk Tim again, like last time, too?”

            “Always.” Gibbs smirked, forever keen on lording about his gaming skills.


	9. Chapter 9

            Tim McGee, while admittedly a ‘good old boy’ at heart, was most certainly _not_ stupid by any stretch of the word. Dopey on occasion and somewhat naïve at times, _sure_ , but _never_ ignorant or stupid. So when his naturally-talkative Team Lead suddenly turned reticent and withdrawn over the course of just a few weeks, he knew instinctively that something was troubling his friend. But rather than attribute to such a sudden shift in character to an unsavory visit with Senior, as he might have done, Tim dug deeper and quickly came to the conclusion that his primary assumption had been incorrect. Because if said infamous wretch _had_ paid his son a social call, despite now being firmly blacklisted from all aspects of his child’s life, Tony would have most certainly been grumbling about it for at least a few days, if not more. And as for Gibbs, well, Gibbs would have been even angrier at the world than he usually was had that been the case. And so, with that hypothesis eliminated, Tim naturally concluded that Tony’s inner-turmoil could only be coming forth from one place and one place only – recurrent issues with his homosexuality. But rather than outright approach the troubled man with such a sensitive topic without any warning, and thus run the risk of panicking his friend, Tim simply played coy for the next few days and decided to wait patiently for the matter to be brought up to _him_ , as he had once done before his little sister had finally come out of the closet to him. But when yet another Monday rolled around without even the slightest indication that Tony was simply steeling himself up well enough to approach Tim with whatever problems were so clearly ailing him, it became abundantly clear that a little ‘pushing’ of sorts would be needed in order to make any progress.  

            So when one impromptu lunchbreak between just the two of them ended with several skinny tubes of lip-gloss, in varying shades of pink, slipping out of Tony’s inner jacket pocket and unto the floor of Tim’s meticulously clean car, he simply scooped up the incriminating cosmetics before his friend could kick them beneath the seat and calmly passed them back to the blushing man seated beside him as if they were no more than Chapstick or Carmex.

            “You dropped your makeup.” Tim gently prodded, refusing to pretend as if he hadn’t seen anything odd.

            Hastily yanking the oblong tubes out of his hand with all the haste of a much-wanted criminal concealing evidence of the crimes that could earn him the death-penalty, Tony turned all the redder and frantically shoved all the lip-gloss in his hand down into his uncovered to-go cup of Dr. Pepper – effectively doing nothing at all but making Tim’s cupholder sticky with the overflown pop.

            “Those are some pretty colors.” Tim casually remarked, wishing to do nothing more than inject a sense of normalcy into the markedly awkward situation at hand. “If you want more, though, Sarah has a whole bunch that she’s trying to get rid of.”

            And even though said lip-gloss had been ridiculously expensive to purchase, given that it had come from some fancy upscale establishment, Tim felt that his little sister would have absolutely no qualms at all in surrendering her small collection to Tony. For not only had she always preferred a bare face, save for maybe a little bit of mascara on special occasions, so too had she likewise only tried the lip-gloss upon hearing such a suggestion from the girl she was currently head-over-heels in love with. But, rather than take his offer as a well-meaning and genuine gesture of friendship, which it was, Tony instead bristled in response and slugged him in the shoulder as hard as he could – sending shockwaves of pain to radiate down the whole entire limb all the way down to his fingers.

            “Fuck you, Tim.” The affronted man growled, looking ready to strike once more.

            Instinctively reacting in the fashion _any_ man would once freshly assaulted, Tim felt himself puff up several sizes and formed a fist of his own.

            “What the hell, Tony!?” Tim snapped, somewhat crabby from his meagre lunch of chef salad. “I was trying to be _nice_!”

            “Well, those lips-glosses weren’t mine!” Tony furiously denied, face all ablaze with shame and rage. “Why would you even _think_ that?!”

            Despite harboring some pretty intense resentment for his team lead after having been so unceremoniously punched on the arm, without reason, Tim almost instantly deflated upon catching the glimpse of anguish in said man’s eyes. Because, at the end of the day, _of course_ the perpetually self-conscious Tony would be self-conscious about something so taboo. Hell, even _Sarah_ had been a nervous wreck before coming out the closet and _she_ had been blessed with the knowledge of knowing her family would love her regardless at the end of it all.

            “Okay.” Tim replied, willing to let the matter drop until a better time. “But if you decide that it _was_ your lip-gloss, you can always talk to me about it.”

            Not at all surprised by the oppressive silence that followed such an ardent declaration of friendship and loyalty, as it was all but comprised of the same awkwardness and emotion that had followed Tony’s initial coming out, Tim simply sat quietly and waited for his _friend_ to make the next move and, as a result, decide how the rest of their lunchbreak was going to go. Because when it came to keeping his team lead calm, it was _always_ best to let him feel as if he were in some sort of control whilst in a troubling emotional situation.

            “How are you so okay with this shit!?” Tony thundered, finally breaking the silence with a dramatic outburst.

            Having spilled a generous portion of his flavored-water all over his white shirt in response to being so suddenly startled by his best friend, Tim almost forgot the seriousness of the conversation at hand as he snatched up a handful of paper napkins and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to dab away the moisture coating his shirt.

            “What shit?” Tim frowned, carefully shoving the now-soggy napkins down into his nearly empty to-go cup.

            “The makeup!” Tony snapped, face still an alarming shade of red.

            Sensing that he was going to need to tread very carefully with such a delicate subject if he wished to avoid getting his ass beat, unlike with Sarah whom he had been able to joke with and tease, Tim forced himself to refrain from scolding his friend for the needless yelling and instead focused on trying to assure said man that he would never be judged unfairly while in his company.

            “Why should it bother me?” Tim frowned, genuinely confused. “It’s not like you’re skinning puppies alive or mugging the elderly.”

            “Because it’s fucking weird, Tim, that’s why!” Tony rounded, clearly unsettled by Tim’s calmness in the face of such a discovery.  

            “So what?” Tim rebuttled. “What does that have to do with _anything_?”        

             Afterall weirdness, in and of itself, was not inherently harmful. Nor did a little bit of quirkiness phase him. Because not only was Jimmy downright bizarre at times, to the point that his antics sometimes even rankled the normally unflappable _Ducky_ , so too was his new girlfriend more than a just little spontaneous and eccentric at times. But, and that was a big but, those unusual characteristics only served to make Tim like them _more_ , not less.

            “What do you mean _so_?” Tony impatiently demanded. “Are you honestly trying to tell me that you’re not bothered one bit that I’m a faggot!?”

            Unable to keep from cringing violently upon hearing such a vulgar word, but likewise woefully unable to reprimand a gay man for using it, Tim quickly swallowed down his distaste for such a slur and forced himself to move forward.

            “Of course I’m not bothered by the fact that you’re gay.” Tim insisted, more than just a little insulted by the very idea that he could ever possibly be bothered by something like that. “I think you’re still the same asshole regardless of your sexuality.”  

            This time when a powerful silence fell over them, Tim didn’t worry, because rather than scowl angrily at him like he had done only moments before, Tony looked to be on the brink of a smile as he hastily turned his face away from him.  

            “Gee, thanks, McGee.” Tony grinned. “It’s nice to know that you still think I’m an asshole.”

             Knowing Tony well enough by that point in time to know that he was simply resorting to flippant humor in order to avoid dealing with any of the emotions currently troubling him, Tim refused to play along and instead set about to making certain that his friend understood, in no uncertain terms, that their relationship had not at all been effected by the discovery of the makeup _or_ anything that might follow as a result.

            “For real though, Tony.” Tim persisted. “I’m here for you. No matter what.”

            And, before yet another silence could settle in between them, one that was awkward rather than outright hostile or uncomfortable, Tim moved onward in a semi-desperate haste before Tony could step in and ruin the moment altogether with his great skills of deflection.

            “Seriously though,” Tim insisted, “If you want those lip-glosses, Sarah is coming over stay at my place this weekend. I’m sure she’d be willing to trade you them for a few of your old shirts.”

             Understandably excited about the college Sophomore’s imminent return, as the two of them got on quite well and enjoyed visiting gay bars together, Tony’s face instantly brightened even as his posture relaxed.

            “How is Beth working out?” Tony inquired, referring to Sarah’s current girlfriend.

             “Great!” Tim divulged. “I really like her.”

            Every bit just as much of an older brother to Sarah, by virtue of his closeness with both of the McGee siblings, Tony nodded approvingly response to such good news and nibbled on some of the fries he hadn’t been able to finish while inside and full of soda.  

             “How many times did you threaten to murder her if she hurt Sarah?” Tony inquired.

             “How many times did _you_?” Tim rebuttled.

            Squirming like a suspect under heavy interrogation from an enraged Gibbs, Tony avoided Tim’s gaze and tried to sound far more innocent than he actually was.

            “…Less than Gibbs did.”  

             “So…fifteen?” Tim suggested, not even bothering to hide his relieved smile.

            “Pretty much.” Tony confessed with a shrug.

            One more suitably assured that nobody with a functioning brain would dare cross three very protective agents by harming Sarah in any manner, least of the sensitive and soft-spoken Beth, Tim nodded approvingly and stole one of Tony’s French fries – no longer able to avoid the temptation to do so.

            “Nobody hurts Sarah.” Tim declared. “Not even another girl.”

            “And bumblebees.”

            “Or avocados.” Tim contributed. “But at least it’s not something that actually tastes good that’ll kill her.”

            Having just that morning downed an entire pound of avocado spread for breakfast, Tony frowned in righteous indignation and shook his head.

            “You have no taste, McGee.”

            “I _just_ watched you down two pounds of chili cheese fries.” Tim rebuttled. “Without pausing for breath.”

            “While _you_ ate the sorriest salad I ever saw.” Tony sallied, pushing more fries into his hand. “Seriously, it was enough to make a grown man want to weep.”

            More than just a little aware of just how unappetizing and unsatisfying his meal had been, as _he_ had been the one to suffer through it, Tim scowled and shoved the soggy fries into his mouth before his hunger could tempt him to say something undeservedly rude to his friend. Because, at the end of the day, it had been _Tim’s_ decision to go on a diet and his alone.

            “You sound like Rose.” Tim grumbled instead.

            “Cheer up.” Tony encouraged. “At least Abby won’t bother the two of you while Sarah is in town.”

             Unable to refuse such a truthful statement, as an enraged Sarah had once given Abby a very spectacular black eye for slapping him in the face, Tim grimaced and only prayed that the weekend wouldn’t end with him bailing his little sister out of jail again.

            “It’s been six months,” Tim sighed, “Abby just needs to accept that it’s over between us.”

            Because if the repeated cheating had not been enough to drive a wedge between them, her inability to be serious when the situation called for it most certainly had.

              “Abby never accepts anything unless it’s under her own terms.” Tony grumbled.

             “She isn’t still begging you to take her to gay clubs, is she?” Tim investigated.

            “Of course she is.” Tony sighed. “I can’t even imagine how she’ll react when she finds out about…this.”

            Deciding then and there to take Tony’s sudden openness as an invitation to pry further, as said man would have almost certainly clammed up if he wasn’t in a divulging mood, Tim braced himself for an emotional outburst but nonetheless pressed onward.

            “And what exactly _is_ ‘this,’ Tony?” Tim asked, trying his hardest to keep his tone casual.

             Looking very much put upon the spot, like a small schoolchild caught passing notes to a friend, Tony colored up brightly again and looked ready to bolt from the vehicle at the slightest provocation. But rather than do just that, and leave Tim alone to explain to an angry Gibbs that his child had gone MIA, Tony mustered up the majority of his courage and took a deep breath before focusing his gaze on his shoes.

            “I just…I just…sometimes feel like…not a boy.”

            Already having come to suspect that Tony was going through some sort of gender confusion, as he had not failed to notice the sudden smoothness of legs of the suspicious darkness of his eyelashes, Tim wasn’t as surprised as might have been. Although that was not to say that he wasn’t at least somewhat shocked by the _extremity_ of such a confusion. Because as ignorant as such a thought might be, Tony had seemed far too macho to ever really mistake as a girl.

            “So you’re a girl, then.” Tim repeated, more shocked than disturbed.

            “It feels that way.” Tony confessed, his voice hardly more than a whisper as his ears flamed red.

            Feeling all the pressure of not saying the wrong thing, as Tony was notoriously sensitive and prone to running to Gibbs, Tim stalled for time by opening a small bag of skittles and riffling through the contents for all the green candies.

            “Do…Do you want me to start calling you she?” Tim offered, wishing to be supportive above all else.

            “No!” Tony yelled, startling Tim into dropping his candy. “It’s just…no, not yet…it’s too new, okay? It’s still a secret.”

            Feeling more than a just little upset at the fact that his friend still felt the need to be ashamed of who he was, as there was absolutely nothing wrong with said man’s behavior or personality, Tim frowned and wondered at the morality of punching Senior straight in the nose.

            “I could do it when it’s just us together.” Tim offered.

            “You’d be willing to do that?” Tony asked, looking as if Tim had just offered to lop off his arm for him.  

             “Well, yeah.” Tim assured. “I can’t just call you a boy if you’re a girl. That would be mean.”

            And, if there was one thing in this world that Tim McGee was _not_ , it was mean. His mother had raised him far too well for him to have such a shameful moral failing.

            “You’re too good for this world, McSaint.” Tony good-naturedly teased.  

            “Well, we won’t be in this world long if we don’t get back to Gibbs. Our lunch break was over five minutes ago.”

 

           

           


	10. Chapter 10

            Whilst Gibbs was no stranger to overtly feminine establishments, given that he had once enjoyed the privilege of raising a stereotypical little girl, he could not honestly claim that his brief forays into any number of Claires had prepared him for his journey into a Sephora. Because unlike the Claires of his memories, which had always been obnoxiously pink and dedicated to the preserving of youthful innocence with age-appropriate jewelry and accessories, Sephora was the exact opposite with its dark décor and more womanly atmosphere. And while that, in itself, didn’t really bother Gibbs as much as it might have a man far less secure in his masculinity, the disquieting black-and-white color scheme bothered him greatly with its blatant resemblance to a zebra. But rather than grumble aloud his complaints about the uninspired design, or the visionless hack who had signed off on such a bland color scheme, Gibbs kept himself quiet for no other reason than not wanting the consultants to take personal offense at such criticism. Because while he had never been one to care if the truth offended a person, friend or not, he knew when preserving the peace was called for – like, for example, when one wished to secure the earnest assistance of a person who was under no real obligation to do anything more than just the bare minimum when it came to fulfilling their job duties.

            “Dad,” Tony whispered, tugging frantically on the hem of his shirt, “We don’t have to do this.”  

            Calmly removing the young man’s fingers off of his clothing, to keep the fabric from becoming stretched out, Gibbs marched forward towards the entrance of the oversized store and refused to slow his pace even when his son turned pale and looked ready to flee from not only the scene but the mall itself.

            “The last time you bought makeup online you wound up looking orange.” Gibbs patiently reminded his favorite agent. “And the time before _that_ you wound up looking anemic.”  

            And it was no mere exaggeration Gibbs was making either, for even the unflappable Ducky had been fully prepared to inflict upon Tony a rigorous diet of iron-heavy foods to fight off the effects of the anemia they had both assumed he’d suddenly come down with after spotting his unsettlingly pale face. And, as for the offending orangeness he’d been so recently startled with one early Sunday morning, the endless pouting that had followed such a blunt observation had actually had Gibbs wishing that it was actually jaundice his son had been suffering from, rather than a distinct and appalling inability to match colors successfully. But rather than take his father’s advice the way it was intended, which was both well-intentioned and constructive, Tony simply scowled at the remembrance of being told he resembled a crabby tangerine and likewise effectively halted their progress into Sephora by planting his feet and refusing to budge so as much another inch.

            “Someone is going to _see_.” Tony groused, lowering his voice dramatically enough that Gibbs had to resort to reading his lips.

            “Not anybody that you know.” Gibbs calmly assured.

            He had, after all, chosen to charitably chauffeur the irredeemably self-conscious young man to the mall several hours away rather than the one that was several miles closer and reachable in just half-an-hour.

            “You can’t possibly know that.” Tony argued, refusing to be swayed.  

             “Well, so what if someone sees?” Gibbs impatiently demanded. “Are you afraid they’ll beat up someone _your_ size?”

            A few rouge assholes might, in fact, deign to heckle them both, but Gibbs liked to think that he had instilled enough self-confidence in his son by now that such ill-intentioned barbs and insults would simply irk him at worst rather than outright devastate him.

            “They’ll _laugh_.” Tony fussed.

            “So let them.” Gibbs shrugged.

            Finally coming to sense that he wasn’t about to win this argument anytime soon, but no less annoyed in result, Tony huffed loudly and reluctantly began shuffling towards the doors of Sephora.

            “I don’t want to embarrass you.” Tony mumbled, stalling once more just outside the doors.

            Thinking that was almost nothing on earth that Tony could do that would embarrass him, save for rooting for the Packers, Gibbs shook his head and placed a steadying hand on his child’s shoulder.

            “I’m not embarrassed, and you shouldn’t be either.” Gibbs assured.

            “But – “

            “You can’t run from this forever.”  Gibbs interrupted. “I raised you better than that.”

            Not only because it wasn’t good for Tony’s emotional wellbeing, which it most certainly wasn’t, but because there was no way in hell that Gibbs was going to go through all the same drama again after having already struggled to deal with all the angst his son experienced while still in the closet.

            “C’mon, Tony.” Gibbs encouraged, gently steering him forward with a hand to his shoulder blade. “It’s time to rip the bandage off.”

            Looking as if he would much rather lop off his own arm than face his fears at the moment, Tony frowned deeply and looked longingly towards one of the very many exits the oversized mall provided.

            “We can leave the very moment you feel uncomfortable.” Gibbs promised, wishing to help his child confront his fears.

            “I feel uncomfortable _now_.” Tony groused.

             “ _Unbearably_ uncomfortable.” Gibbs amended.

            By that point knowing better than to argue semantics with his father, as such was _always_ a losing battle unless Ducky was around to provide assistance, Tony huffed loudly and crossed his arms before glaring at Gibbs.

            “How does it feel to always get your way?” His son angrily demanded.

            “Pretty damn good.” Gibbs swiftly confirmed, dragging his son into the store by his arm.

            Sneezing loudly several times as a whole host of perfumes and scents assaulted his nose, Gibbs effectively mortified his son by prompting at least half the store into staring. But rather than allow Tony to flee the scene, as he was so clearly wishing to do, Gibbs held tightly to the sleeve of his shirt and all but glowered everyone’s stares away from the two of them.

            “Hello, welcome to Sephora.” A suspiciously young teenager chirped, practically skipping over their way. “My name is Blair. Can I help you find anything?”

            Somewhat thrown off-guard by such a simple question, as he knew absolutely fuck-all about makeup despite the many tutorials his son had given him throughout the month, Gibbs stalled and looked to Tony for assistance – only to find said man’s face beet-red and his lips glued shut by sheer mortification.

            “Shopping for mom?” Blair assumed, a saccharine smile on her face. “We have _just_ the thing for – “

            “We’re not shopping for someone else.” Gibbs frowned.

            Immediately put on edge as the youthful girl visibly bristled and allowed her smile to falter, Gibbs brought himself up to full height and prepared himself to give one hell of an ass chewing – his son’s embarrassment be damned. Because no one, and absolutely no one, got to make his child feel like shit for something that couldn’t be helped.

            “Who the hell – “

            Prematurely cut short from delivering a devastating dressing-down to the impolite bigot standing meekly before him as yet another sales associate hurried over and stepped between them, Gibbs frowned and contemplated the wisdom of allowing himself to get kicked out of the establishment when his son’s access to such a place was likely connected to his own.

            “Blaire,” The blonde girl frowned, “Go take your lunch. I’ll take these two.”         

            More than just a little relived to avoid the wrath that had been soon to come her way, Blair all but ran from the store and off into the crowded hallways beyond – clearly hoping to blend into the crowd and lesson the chances of her getting reduced to tears after a chewing out session with Gibbs.

            “Hi,” The blonde replacement grinned, “I’m Lucy. I’ll be taking care of you today.”  

            “Great.” Gibbs grumbled, relieved to find her far more genuine than her predecessor. “My kid – “

            Flashing a breathtaking smile up into his face, Lucy startled him into silence long enough to commandeer Tony into her custody via a slender arm wrapped around his beefier one.

            “I’ve got this.” Lucy assured. “Why don’t you take a seat over there with the other parents?”                      

            Glancing over towards where her skinny finger was pointing, Gibbs was somewhat relieved to see a small alcove situated with chairs and a sofa for those who might not wish to an active participate in the shopping being done by their companions. Because as much as he wished to support Tony in all that was important to him, he felt more than just a little out of his depth amongst so many feminine things and people.  

            “Oi,” A skinny brunette greeted him, just as soon as he’d taken a seat, “You must be in the dog house, too, yeah?”  

             Somewhat irritated by the other man’s desire to talk, as Gibbs had always been more than just a little embarrassed by his piss-poor conversationalist skills, Gibbs sighed softly but nonetheless appeased the chatty man with what he hoped was the correct response to such an absurd presumption.

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “I’m asking what you did to get put in the dog house.” The man clarified. “Because I called my sister-in-law a porker _seven months_ ago and Alice is still on my case about it.”

            “I’m not here because I’m an asshole.” Gibbs frowned. “I’m here to help my child.”

            More than just a little uncomfortable when several of the older woman seated in the alcove gazed adoringly at him in response to his blunt honestly, Gibbs squirmed a bit uncomfortably and began to wonder the plausibility of pretending to fake a phone call to avoid any more awkwardness.

            “Well, someone needs to help _that_ child.” A larger woman quipped to her friends, jerking a fat thumb towards Tony.

            Instantly feeling his blood begin to boil, and his blood-pressure to rise, in response to such blatant and uncalled for rudeness, Gibbs actually growled at the offensive woman before opening his mouth to call her out for such unnecessary judgement.  

             “Oh, would you piss off?” The chatty brunette man from earlier intervened. “The lad aint hurting nobody, is he?”

             “Well, don’t you think it’s just a little odd that a _grown man_ is spending time in a store with all these young girls?”

            “Susan,” One of the instigator’s friends cautioned, looking more than just a little embarrassed, “You can’t – “  

            “I’m just saying, Beth, that a grown man doesn’t belong in a place with young girls.”  

            Only narrowly refraining himself from making the comment that a full-grown elephant didn’t belong in a mall, much less amongst decent people, Gibbs clamped down hard on his tongue and sat on his hands in order to lessen the desire to strike the offensive party.

            “Don’t worry.” The man with the accent blithely assured. “I don’t think anyone in this store is into _your_ piglets.”

            “Why, I have _never_ – “

            “Ah, piss off, why don’t you?” The unnamed man suggested.

            Appearing more and more like an angry and enormous tomato the angrier she became, the plump woman taking up 2/3 of the sofa climbed awkwardly to her feet and glowered down into the face of the unalarmed man who had just referred to her children so rudely.

            “What, is that thing one of _yours_?”

             “No.” Gibbs growled. “That _child_ is mine!”

            Deflating as quickly as a popped water balloon upon receiving one hell of a glare from Gibbs, Susan lost all redness in her face and turned quite white before hastily making a retreat without either children of companions in company.

            “Bloody hell, people need to learn to mind their own goddamn business.” The mouthy man nearby him grumbled. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, who cares how people spend their time, yeah?”

            “Apparently a lot of people.” Gibbs frowned.

             


	11. Chapter 11

            Despite never having been able to outright enjoy being in the company of any group, no matter the size or length of his acquaintanceship with said members, Gibbs soon discovered, to his great surprise, that the anxiety medication his strong-willed therapist had bullied him into taking a few weeks ago had finally kicked in and made it not so hard to suffer through one of Ducky’s husband’s backyard barbeques. Because instead of arriving with the oppressive weight of just knowing some strangers were going to try and talk to his ineloquent and awkward self, and thus make him look like an outright dumbass, he had made his way into Ducky’s backyard without any such concern plaguing his mind and twisting up his stomach up into knots. And, in a very welcome addition to such welcoming news, neither did his normally overworked brain harass him, as was its usual wont, with all the troubling scenarios that _might_ happen in any given day but, in the end, weren’t very likely to occur at all if statistics were to believed.

            In short, Gibbs arrived at the impromptu backyard celebration with an unaffected calmness he had not felt in years, let alone the _decades_ following his wife and daughter’s synchronous and untimely murders. For not only had he began the day surprisingly well-rested, having experienced no racing thoughts about the inevitability and randomness of death to keep him awake half the night, so too had he already had a pleasant breakfast with his child at both their favorite café – the time spent within having allowed the both of them to let get of their worries for a good hour and just enjoy the moment and their food.

            “I say, Jethro, I haven’t seen you look this relaxed in ages.” Ducky opined, passing his friend a cold beer the very moment he took a seat in the lawn chair besides his. “Who, or what, do I have to thank for such a welcome change?”

            Knowing his best friend well enough by that point in their relationship to understand that he wasn’t maliciously picked on, rather just playfully razzed, Gibbs simply rolled his eyes before gratefully accepting the beer and cracking it open with just one hand.

            “Prozac.” Gibbs confirmed, knowing that the Medical Examiner wouldn’t give him any crap about taking medication for emotional problems.

            Unlike his father, who had responded to the inadvertent discovery of his son’s medication with an angry and impatient rant about hard-work and church being the only cure for a man’s troubled mind.

            “It’s about time you did something about that anxiety of yours.” Ducky remarked. “The bourbon just wasn’t cutting it.”

            “It was getting rather expensive, too.” Gibbs agreed, thinking of all the bourbon he used to down in one evening alone.

            And, if all the money he had squandered on alcohol in his futile attempts to achieve inner-peace had not served well enough to make him regret his stubborn refusal to even entertain the idea of taking medication, the realization that he been missing out on such important feelings as peace and calmness for the greater part of two decades or more most certainly was. Because as rough and gruff and bastardly as he liked to proclaim himself to be, he _had_ missed being able to relax without feeling as some unnamed doom was heading toward him, just as he had missed being not being constantly stressed without reason. It was only that Gibbs hadn’t realized any of that, at all, until the medication had kicked in and made his anxiety much more bearable. And it was with no small about of regret, or consternation, that Gibbs often found himself regretting his bullheaded decision to suffer in silence rather than humble himself enough to take a tiny little pill every morning with his breakfast.

            “Have you quit drinking hard liquors altogether then?” Ducky inquired, understandably surprised.

            “Mostly.” Gibbs confessed, still somewhat surprised by such a sudden change in drinking preference himself.

             Because while he _had_ been prepared, upon the advice of his blunt therapist, that certain changes in mood and behaviors would inevitably result from the medication, as well as the therapy itself, the sudden aversion he felt for spending his evenings getting hammered to the point of blacking out in the empty bathtub had most certainly shocked him to no small degree, as that had been the only method, up until the point of being prescribed medication, that had worked to keep intrusive thoughts of his dead family out of his mind long enough to allow him to black out into a marginabley restful slumber. That was not to say, however, that he _missed_ such an unhealthy and destructive arrangement. And, in fact, were he being perfectly honest, it was a more than welcome change of pace to fall asleep within the folds of his own mattress, sans the headache and backache that usually followed a night spent curled up in the bathtub fighting off nightmares.

            “Goodness,” Ducky pipped, pausing to sip at his own beer, “Medication _and_ a fair bit of temperance. Your blood-pressure and liver must surely be thanking you right now.”

            “Maybe.” Gibbs allowed. “But I think my agents are far more grateful.”

            He had, after all, nearly given Tim a heart attack upon both requesting his assistance with the new iPhone Tony had finally bullied him into getting and likewise legitimately thanking the technological genius for the patient help rendered. Because even though Gibbs had failed to grasp even the vaguest of the options and settings explained to him, apart from maybe the explanation of how to change ringtones and enter phone numbers into the phonebook application, he had most certainly been genuine with his appreciation when thanking the younger, more timid, man. A fact that had not gone unnoticed by the ever-perceptive Tim judging by the way he had visibly startled and blinked in confusion.  

            “And what of _you_ , Jethro?” Ducky interrogated. “Are you likewise just as relieved?”

            Both unwilling and unable to lie to his closest of friends on such a serious topic, or any for that matter, Gibbs sighed loudly and wearily closed his for a spell.

            “I had forgotten how it felt to not be so on edge all the time.” Gibbs confirmed. “I almost wish I could kick my own ass for being so bullheaded.”

            “I should hate for you to suffer on account of your own lack of flexibility.” Ducky frowned, a mischievous expression coming across his features. “Shall I do the honors in your stead?”

            Thinking that Ducky would be hard-pressed to kick the ass of a clawless kitten, if not by his good nature alone than by his frail physique, Gibbs snorted in friendly derision but otherwise charitably kept his assessment of his friend’s lack of strength to himself.

            “You’ll need to get in line.” Gibbs advised, thinking of the unflatteringly long list of people who might like to assault him in one manner or the other.

            “What’s this?” Ducky frowned, with mock outrage. “Have you no fast-pass available for a good friend?”

            “The only fast-pass you’ll get is a beer upturned over your head.” Gibbs promptly assured, raising his beer can a few inches in warning.

            Looking no more phased than he might have were he to discover himself to have lost a quarter or a cheap ink pen, Ducky quirked a graying brow in his direction before snorting loudly himself.

            “I don’t think my Jimmy would thank you for such appalling rudeness.” The Scottish man calmly forewarned.

            While Gibbs would have taken such an ominous threat as a joke just three years ago, given Jimmy’s seemingly frail stature and unyielding meek nature, he found he could no longer disregard the skinny assistant as nothing more than a quirky toothpick Ducky had taken under his wings and metaphorically adopted. For having been none-too-gently coerced by his father-figure into participating in some sort of sporting activity to increase his self-confidence, Jimmy had gotten it into his head to participate in one of the most dangerous and rigorous of those activities in the hopes of getting his pushy father to relent and allow him to remain meek forever. Which meant, of course, that Jimmy had selected kickboxing. But rather than become aghast the first time his child had arrived home with a broken nose and split lip, and issue forth the decree that no sports were to take place, Ducky had simply bandaged the wounds before asking Jimmy when his first tournament was. Which naturally meant that the stubborn Jimmy kept at the sport, unwilling to admit defeat, until, gradually, he actually came to enjoy it and became proficient at it as a result. And while Gibbs hadn’t actually noticed any change in the young man for the longest of times, given the way he liked to contain himself to the morgue, after a good three years it was hard not to notice the change in Jimmy. Especially not when said man was currently proving, to a rudely disbelieving Abby, that he could, in fact, break a six-inch tree branch with just one kick alone.

            “Aren’t you ever afraid he’s going to get seriously hurt?” Gibbs questioned.

            “Does breaking his collar bone _not_ constitute getting seriously hurt?” Ducky chuckled.

            Never failing to be amazed by the blasé manner in which Ducky managed to view his only child getting injured, even _if_ it was in the pursuit of perfecting a sport, Gibbs shook his head and wondered if his anxiety meds were really working after all. Because there was not a day that went by, or an hour, that he didn’t worry about something bad happening to Tony.

            “Jethro, is everything all right?” Ducky frowned, seeming to read his mind.

            “I just worry about Tony is all.” Gibbs sighed. “Constantly.”

            And though he would never admit it, out loud, he worried all the more now that Tony was experimenting with his gender. Because while being gay had gradually become more acceptable throughout the world, being transgender most certainly hadn’t. And while Tony was admittedly strong and good in a fight, all the strength in the world wouldn’t keep him safe if he were jumped by three or more bigoted men.

            “And I worry for Jimmy as well.” Ducky promptly assured. “But as much I would like to wrap him up in bubble wrap and keep him locked up inside, I still understand that I can do no such thing. A ship may be safe in the harbor, Jethro, but that’s not what a ship is for.”

            “I just worry.” Gibbs repeated, knowing better than anyone else just how quickly a life could be ended.

            “Jethro,” Ducky began, laying a comforting hand on his arm, “You’ve raised for yourself an exceptionally resilient and tenacious child. And while I understand where your very real fears are coming from, I feel I _must_ advise you to have more faith in your influence over Tony. That she might get hurt at some point in the future is only a given, yes, but the manner in which she is able to so quickly rebound and recover should give you faith that all will be well in the end.”          


	12. Chapter 12

            Despite having been warned, repeatedly, by several people, that her indiscriminate snooping was not longer going to be tolerated at work, Abby felt keenly, and with no small amount of relief, that such an onerous and vague stipulation failed to hold any water so long as she was _outside_ the boundary of The Yard. And, as such, that meant she was fully entitled to enter Ducky’s home on the pretext of needing the bathroom so that she could better investigate Tim’s new girlfriend, Rose, and discover any number of the hidden flaws she must surely have. If not to prove to _herself_ that she was most assuredly still the best girlfriend her ex had ever had the pleasure of laying claim to, then at the very least to prove to the rest of the team that the gratingly sweet Rose really wasn’t at all as perfect as they currently thought she was. Because nothing in the world grated her so much as to see Gibbs, _her_ Gibbs, enjoy the soft-spoken twit company over hers – _especially_ when the blonde slag wasn’t even a part of the work family, and an FBI agent to boot!

            And so, it was with creeping and cautious footfalls that Abby slithered into Ducky’s home via the backdoor and slithered through the quiet halls and rooms until she had reached the foyer up front and the coat closet that accompanied it. Then, not wishing to dawdle and run the risk of being caught, she opened the oversized closet and stepped into the darkness before drawing the doors shut and using her cellphone as a camera. Unfortunately though, having arrived quite late to the party, she had next to no idea as to whose coats and purses were whose. Which meant that she had to make her choices on which items to investigate based on little more than the assumptions she had formed about Rose during the intolerable and few times she had been forced to suffer her presence.

 So, naturally, it was the bubblegum-pink handbag she went for first, assuming that only a boisterous and uncontained woman like Rose would enjoy a color so childish and obnoxious. Only when she dipped her fingers into the leather receptacle to better investigate the contents of such, the resulting discovery of Maxalt for migraines and copious amounts of Bath & Body lotions immediately told her that it was actually _Kate’s_ purse she had dug into. Which meant that the cute black bag she had been actively admiring since entering the closet was, unfortunately, Rose’s of all people! And that wasn’t even close to the worst part, at all.

No, _that_ acclaim to fame came forth from the suspicious amount of prenatal vitamins and Phenergan located _within_ the bag. For that meant, in no uncertain terms, that said boyfriend stealing whore had gotten knocked up just _months_ after seducing Tim away from her. But rather than immediately stomp back out into the backyard to confront the floozy with the knowledge and evidence of her heinous transgression, and subsequently run the risk to being accused of making a scene, Abby clamped down on her justified outrage long enough to rifle through Tim’s jacket pocket and wallet to discover an early sonogram of twins. It was only by reminding herself that Gibbs had recently warned her she was skating on thin ice with him, that Abby was able to refrain from ripping the offensive picture into several pieces.  

            But, even so, her respectful fear of Gibbs did not keep her from seeking the comforting thrill of rifling through said Marine’s jacket pocket for any exciting discoveries that might be made. It was to her great shock, as well annoyance, that her efforts turned up a half-empty bottle of Prozac with her silver-fox’s name on the script. Because, at the end of the day, there was no real reason why Gibbs, _her_ Gibbs, wouldn’t have told her, of all people, about suddenly deciding to become medication. And, as such, she was totally, and rightfully, offended by such a slight.

            _‘I wonder what_ Tony _is hiding from me now.’_ Abby inwardly pouted, digging her fingers into his soft blue jacket to investigate.

            To say that she was more than just a little startled as she removed several tubes of brightly colored lip-glosses from one of the pockets would have been one hell of an understatement. Because even _with_ being gay, the presence of makeup in her friend’s jacket pocket was suspicious as hell. Unfortunately though, before she had any time to make heads or tails of such a discovery, the sounds of light footfalls coming her way had her panicking and dropping the evidence unto the floor as she hastily dimmed her phone and scurried to hide behind some of the longer coats tucked away near the back of the closet.

            “ – And thanks again, Kate.” Came Rose’s irritating and throaty voice.

            “No problem.” Kate happily chattered. “I always carry an extra sweater in my purse.”      

            Becoming all the more concerned as she realized the coat closet was actually going to be opened at some point, and soon, Abby felt her face blanch even as she pushed herself even deeper into the furthest corner of the closet and buried her face in a musty and oversized trench coat that must have belonged to Hamish. Because as much as she wasn’t afraid of Kate, knowing that said woman would never lay a hand on her, she just _knew_ that either one of the women outside the door would tattle on her to Gibbs if they discovered hidden in the closet amongst people’s personal belongings.

            “It’s just so embarrassing.” Rose whined, grating Abby to no end. “I really didn’t think being pregnant was going to be so hard.”  

            Despite being immediately flooded with rage upon receiving undeniable confirmation that Rose was, indeed, pregnant with her ex-fiancé’s babies, Abby forced herself to keep quiet by biting down on her first and counting to thirty.  

             “Are those meds not helping at all?” Kate fussed, her voice coming nearer and nearer.

            “They are…but I still wish they worked a little better.” Rose fussed. “I’m still uncomfortable all the time and poor Tim worries so much now.”

             Unable to keep from thinking that it served Rose right to be suffering from hyperemesis, given that she had so shamelessly seduced Tim away from her without cause, Abby snickered as quietly as she could and silently thanked God that his retributions were so well-fitting.

            “Tim worries about everything.” Kate replied. “It’s just what he does.”

            “Hopefully he’ll calm down a bit once the babies are here.” Rose sighed. “I can’t take much more of this fussing.”

            Reflecting fondly upon all the memories of Tim going out of his way to dote on her, whether by on-demand backrubs or impromptu trips to the store to fetch whatever she desired, Abby frowned deeply at Rose’s ungratefulness and avowed to make certain that she lived to regret it by winning Tim back.

            “Tim’s just going to get _worse_ once the babies are here.” Kate kindly dismissed. “I mean, for God’s sake, have you _seen_ how he fusses over his little sister?”

            Entirely and shamelessly unable to keep from frowning upon hearing Sarah McGee referred to, as said twat had kicked her ass last Thanksgiving for no reason other than seeing her slap Tim, Abby muttered a few select obscenities into the coat concealing the greater portion of her body and stopped only when it became apparent to her that her hiding spot might soon be discovered if she kept at it.

             “He really is a mother hen.” Rose sighed, almost dreamily enough to make Abby want to vomit.

            “He’s almost worse than Gibbs with a sick Tony.” Kate readily agreed.

            “Speaking of that,” Rose began, soft voice becoming a little strained, “Is Tony okay? He seemed a little on edge after he got that phone call and Gibbs looked ready to strangle someone afterwards.”

            Pierced ears beginning to tingle mercilessly at the promise of some good gossip, Abby held her breath to better hear and carefully inched forward just a few inches.

            “Don’t worry too much about it, Rose.” Kate insisted. “Senior just called to Tony to harass him about his – just to harass him, that’s all.”

            More than just a little miffed when Rose failed to ask the very obvious follow-up question, that being _why_ Senior had called to harass his child, Abby huffed loudly into the musty coat concealing her face and wondered, to her herself, just how a girl so stupid as she could manage to secure a man like Tim. Because even though she was still more than just a little miffed about being dumped by said man, she was more than just a little willing to admit that he was quite the catch.

            “Who’s Senior?” Rose inquired.

            “Tony’s biological father.” Kate answered, distaste clear in her voice.

             “Oh.” Rose piped. “I thought _Gibbs_ was Tony’s father.”

            Wondering just how stupid Rose really was if she had failed to grasp the concept of Gibbs only being Tony’s spiritual father, rather than his biological one, Abby rolled her eyes and tried to calculate how long it would be before Tim got tired of the little blonde idiot.

            “He is…but Senior is ‘technically’ his father, I guess.”

            “Got it.” Rose confirmed. “But why does Tony put up with that nonsense from Senior then? It’s not like he’s hurting for positive attention.”

            “I don’t know.” Kate sighed. “I guess a person will always want their parent to love them. Even if they _are_ shitty.”

            “But why does Senior hate Tony so much?” Rose fussed. “It’s not because he’s gay, is it?”  

            Still more than just a little irritated at the fact that Tony had outed himself to Rose almost immediately, when it had taken him a good three weeks to come out to _her_ , Abby gritted her teeth and was only narrowly able to keep a growl back.

            “That’s part of it, I’m sure.” Kate bluntly answered.

            “That’s dreadful.” Rose gasped. “I should hack into that man’s computer and – “

            “Isn’t Fornel already angry at you for doing the same to that rude waitress?”  Kate interrupted, always one to talk sense into a person.

            Wondering idly if Tim knew of such an occurrence taking place, and if such information could be used to her benefit, Abby quickly tucked away the incriminating evidence to the back of her mind for later use.

            “Well, yes, but – “

            “Rose – “

             “Oh, alright, fine. Be that way.” Rose pouted.

            “Don’t worry, Rose, Gibbs will take care of it.” Kate promised.

            Reveling somewhat as she allowed her overactive imagination to concoct all sorts of scenarios that involved Gibbs beating Senior senseless to some degree, the most prominent of which involved a jackhammer, Abby giggled into her hands to remain concealed and only hoped to be an audience for such an event.

            “He had _better_.” Rose cautioned. “Because Tony is a nice guy and doesn’t deserve to be made to feel bad for being born gay.”

             “Believe me, he _will_.” Kate avowed, yanking open the close door with a flourish.

            Immediately holding her breath as a flood of light entered the closet and brushed against her exposed toes, Abby stiffened painfully and practically stuck her head into the armhole of the disgusting jacket to avoid detection as Kate rifled through her purse in pursuit of the spare sweater she kept within.

            “Kate, what’s wrong?” Rose fussed, having not failed to spot her friend’s frown.

            “Someone has been digging through my purse.”

            Feeling herself turn faint at her crime having been so easily discovered, Abby leaned against the wall for support and prayed that she wouldn’t faint.

            “Are you sure?”

            “I alphabetize my _spices_ , Rose, I _know_ when someone’s been snooping around in my stuff.”  

            Heartily cursing herself for having forgotten just how anal Kate could be when it came to organization, as such a trait might very well spell her downfall, Abby bit down hard on her fingers and wondered if, perhaps, her snooping might have been better saved for another time.

            “Maybe someone needed a tampon?” Rose charitably suggested, for the first time not annoying Abby with her answer.           

            “Who?” Kate scoffed. “The pregnant woman or Sarah who gets the Depo shot and doesn’t need them?”  

            “What about Beth though?” Rose persisted.

            “Beth is too timid to ask for more water at a restaurant. She wouldn’t go through my things.” Kate instantly dismissed.  

             Her feeble hopes that Rose might suggest that Beth was really not all that timid instantly crushed when the skinny blonde chose to remain quiet, Abby began to panic and feel the sweat bead up on her forehead.

            “Nothing is missing, is it?” Rose worried, once more earning Abby’s ire.

            Taking a brief moment to remove her pink wallet and check its contents, no doubt to ascertain whether or not any money had been stolen, Kate’s face darkened and a scowl appeared on her lips.

            “Nothing is missing.” She reluctantly agreed. “But Abby has clearly been snooping again. You should really be careful, Rose.”

             “I already know that.” Rose sighed. “I found her black hairs all over my car.”

            Offended beyond belief that Rose would just instantly assume that it had been _her_ hairs discovered within her shitty thirty-year-old truck, even though they very likely _were_ hers, Abby bristled and very nearly gave her position away by growling.

            “Oh my God,” Kate grimaced, removing the sweater from her purse, “That is so fucking creepy.”

            “I know.” Rose enthusiastically agreed, replacing her vomit-soiled sweater with the loaned replacement. “And one night when I was working the late shift, she broke into our house and crawled into bed with Tim.”  

             Instantly flooded with indignation that Tim would have shared something so personal with another person, even if said person _was_ his fiancée, Abby blinked back tears of frustration and wondered how best to get back at the both of them.

            “Jesus Christ, Rose, why haven’t you two taken out a restraining order against her?”

            “She wouldn’t be able to work at The Yard then.” Rose defended.

            “Ugh.” Kate groaned, carefully rezipping her purse. “You two are way too nice and it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass when the two of you are featured on Forensic Files.”

            Silently adding the offensive Kate to her growing shit-list after hearing her give voice to the thought that Abby might murder someone someday, Abby sucked in several deep breaths to calm herself and nearly choked when a mothball got sucked down her throat.

            “Oh, Kate, that’s not even funny.” Rose pouted, looking a bit pale.

            “I wasn’t laughing.”  

            “You _were_.” Rose accused, a small smile on her face. “I heard – “

            Prevented from finishing her sentence as some very loud footfalls soundly came within hearing distance, Rose furrowed up her brows in confusion and looked to Kate for answers before promptly being startled by Gibb’s loud voice booming down the hallway.

            “What the hell is taking you two so long?” The impatient Marine demanded. “Ducky was starting to get worried.”  

            Watching as Rose turned to face Gibbs with a complacency that was more than just a little offensive to her, as said woman hadn’t known the man anywhere near long enough to be so forward and relaxed in his presence, Abby felt her blood boil and her vision turn red.

            “Sorry, my stomach was just really upset.” Rose explained.

            “Yeah, I had gathered that.” Gibbs grunted.   

            “You’re not mad about your shoes, are you?”

            Curiosity prompting her to look down at Gibb’s shoes, Abby quickly espied a suspicious dampness on the sneakers and easily surmised that Rose hadn’t been at all judicious with her aim.

            “It’s fine.” Gibbs grumbled. “Most of it got on your sweater anyways.”  

            Frowning in frustration as Gibbs failed to chew her out for being so careful, Abby pouted and hoped, against hope, that the vomit had at least managed to stain her sweater.

            “I hope I didn’t put a damper on the party.” Rose worried, always quick to play sweet.

            “Nah, but you _will_ if you keep taking so long. Tim’s ready to send n a search party after you.” Gibbs warned.

            “Ugh,” Rose sighed, already shuffling off, “I’m _pregnant_ not fragile.”

            More than just a little relived as she watched the irritating blonde waddle away, as it stood to follow that the other two would soon follow, Abby closed her eyes in relief and carefully stretched out her cramping legs and quietly as possible.

            “You coming, Todd?” Gibbs demanded, making it clear that she didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

            “Gibbs, I need to talk to you.” Kate insisted, speaking quietly so as not to draw Rose back to the scene.

            Despite already knowing that the jig was up the moment Kate obliged Gibbs to return to her side, Abby still prayed most earnestly to all the saints in existence that she might somehow be spared the ass-reaming that would follow the discovery of her crimes.

            “Look, Todd.” Gibbs sighed. “I already said I was sorry for yelling at you for coming in late on Monday. I didn’t know you had migraines – “

            “No, it’s not that.” Kate swiftly assured. “I just wanted to warn you that Abby is snooping again.”

             Feeling no small amount of panic as she watched Gibbs’s face fall into the scary neutral mask he put on whenever he was about to go ballistic, Abby clutched the coat in front of her for support and willed herself not to faint.

            “Are you sure, Kate?” Gibbs interrogated. “One-hundred percent?”

            “Positive.” Kate confirmed.  

             “Which means she went through everyone’s things.” Gibbs sighed, reaching his fingers into Tony’s pocket only to find it empty. _“Fuck.”_

Wishing more than just a little bit that she had been clever enough to somehow return the lip-glosses to their proper place before Gibbs had arrived, as clearly he was the only other one aside from Tony who knew of their existence, Abby swallowed down the rising lump in her throat as quietly as possible and quickly worked to conjure up some crocodile tears.

            “We don’t know that she went through everyone’s.” Kate offered, clearly working to calm Gibb’s wrath.

            “If there are six goddamn cookies lying on a table, Todd, Abby is taking all of them!”

            “But it’s not like Tony would have anything that embarrassing his pockets, is it?” Kate reasoned. “Unless… _shit_.”

             “I take it he told you?” Gibbs inquired, careful not to let anything slip.

            “I mean…not officially. But he didn’t really have to. I already kind of knew.” Kate confided, speaking in a whisper.

            Despite being immediately overwhelmed with sheer rage at the fact that Tony was clearly sharing the kind of secrets he used to share with _her_ with Kate of all people, a woman he used to outright loath and bitch about, Abby sense of self-preservation outweighed her need for confrontation and kept her silent long enough to hear Gibbs reply.

            “Look, Todd, why don’t we just head back to the party. I’ll try and hunt down Abby and get situation squared away.”  


	13. Chapter 13

            While Ducky had started out his morning believing that the afternoon festivities he had planned would go just swimmingly, given that the fickle sky had promised neither rain nor clouds, his unassuming hopes for a pleasant backyard barbeque had been promptly put to an untimely rest almost the very moment a disgruntled Abigail had arrived and subsequently discovered, via a loose-lipped Hamish, that her ex-beau’s new fiancée would be in attendance alongside the younger McGee who had just so recently given her a heinous black eye and split lip. For while the rest of his invitees had most certainly arrived to the affair in good spirits, knowing, as they did, that Hamish always provided the best of foods and liquors, the immature Abigail had seemingly arrived determined to be in a foul mood -  a facet of her character which soon seemed to rub off on all those around her. Because if she had not immediately heralded her arrival with obscene questions directed towards Beth, pertaining to inarguably private aspects of her sex-life with Sarah, on the pretext of having always wanted to experiment with a girl, she had likewise further expounded upon that rudeness by suggesting to a clearly already very uncomfortable Anthony that he ought to accompany her to a local gay bar once the afternoon had come to a close. And, had it not been for Hamish’s not-so-subtle suggestion that any gay establishment that welcomed fetishizing heterosexuals was not really worth its weight in salt, Abigail might very well have kept badgering her innocent victim in the frenetic pursuit of getting what she wanted. And though Ducky would have _gladly_ intervened the very moment the uninhibited young woman changed tactics and shifted her target unto the unceasingly polite Rose to inquire, quite inappropriately, if she really felt it all that appropriate to marry Timothy after only eight months of dating, he found, to his great relief, that it had been quite unnecessary to do so as Jethro had taken on the task himself and reminded the errant young girl, in earnest, that _she_ had outright begged Timothy for an engagement ring after only three months of dating. Which, while somewhat rude in itself, had thankfully been more than just a little effective in shaming Abigail into fleeing the scene with the dubious claims that she needed a bathroom in order to attend to her newest of piercings. And while Ducky wasn’t at all keen on the idea over allowing the little tyrant into home unsupervised, given that he had no real ideas as to just _where_ her newest of piercings was located, and likewise because she enjoyed nothing so much as snooping through a person’s personal belongings, his sense of politeness had eventually overpowered his selfishness and prompted him to grant her the permission she required for entering his home unescorted.

            It was to his great chagrin, and regret, that he very quickly learned to regret such charity. For not had he been forced, of a necessity, to send Jethro into his home to locate the three rouge woman located within after a good half hour had elapsed without neither presenting themselves, if not out of earnest worry for their wellbeing than out of outright concern this his bedroom was currently being rifled through, so too had Abigail soon provident to him just why he was wrong to give her another chance in the first place. Because not even twenty minutes after Jethro had been sent off to collect the missing young women, in particular the youngest and most misbehaved of the bunch, a very disconcerted Rose had appeared at his side to apologize for making a scene out of vomiting all over herself. And while _that_ , in itself, was not enough to worry him, as really what woman _wouldn’t_ be more than just a little mortified after expelling the contents of their lunch in front of a crowd, the irritable way in which Caitlyn had returned to his backyard most certainly _was_ – as such uncharacteristic behavior from the skinny brunette had only served to make him all the more certain that Abigail had gotten up to some nefarious mischief before being discovered by the now-upset agent who had once been her close friend. But just what the mischief might have entailed was utterly beyond Ducky, as Jethro had outright failed to reappear with an explanation and Caitlyn had sulked off to share a low-sugar margarita with an already slightly-tipsy Jimmy.

            Unfortunately for him, as well as for the sakes of their guests and neighbors, Abigail didn’t wait very long at all to make _her_ reappearance, nor did Caitlyn hesitate even marginally to confront her the very moment she took notice of such a fact – even though her intended target did, indeed, look very pale and disquieted already.

            “Abby!” Caitlyn thundered, immediately grabbing the culprit by the collar of her shirt. “If I find out you went through my things _one more time_ , I swear to God I’ll – “

            “I haven’t been going through anything!” Abigail immediately squawked, frantically wriggling herself free.

            Not even needing the benefit of watching the errant Forensic Specialist’s face become all the paler to know that she was, indeed, lying, Ducky sighed loudly into his third beer and wondered just how it was that Jethro had managed to be fooled for so long by such an appallingly unrepentant and narcissistic girl. Although, if he had to wager a guess as to the reason, he might very well assume that such unyielding charity stemmed forth from the fact that Abigail bore a remarkable facial similarity to Kelly despite the differences in coloring.

            “Are you kidding me?!” Caitlyn thundered. “All my things were moved around!”

            Wisely sensing that it wasn’t doing her any real good to lie when her victim had such clear proof of her crime, Abigail cleverly refrained for persisting in her innocence and instead shifted her efforts unto a more deplorable tactic – deflection.

            “Only _you_ would notice a lotion was moved, Kate!” Abigail angrily huffed.

            “So, you admit it, then!” Caitlyn angrily accused, her vehemence frightening Jimmy away from the scene.

            “But I wasn’t even trying to go through _your_ purse, Kate!” Abby snapped, completely missing the point.

            Deciding then and there to no longer allow the undisciplined young woman unto his property now that she had proven, for a fourth time, that she would use such an opportunity to molest not only his belongings but that of his guests, Ducky frowned heavily and cursed himself for ever having allowed Jethro to talk him into giving her a fifth chance in the first place. Because as much as Jethro liked to accuse _him_ of being the soft one, which was just perfectly absurd, he had been all but adamant against such leniency until, gradually, the Marine had worn him down with his relentless pestering.

            “You shouldn’t be going through _anyone’s_ things!” Caitlyn growled, stomping forward to bridge the gap between she and the remorseless snooper.

            “I wouldn’t _have_ to snoop if everyone would just stop lying to me!” Abigail defended, timidly backing away from the aggressor.

            Although Ducky had been one to outright enjoy conflict, especially when it came to violence, he felt confident enough in Caitlyn’s person to refrain from feeling the need to immediately intervene in the situation and prevent the two angry women from reaching a natural conclusion of their own.

            “What the hell are you talking about?!” Caitlyn angrily demanded. “ _Nobody_ has been lying to you!”

            Pale face scrunching up into a mask of pure frustration and rage, Abigail stomped her foot like an angry toddler denied an extended bedtime or sweet.

            “Keeping secrets _is_ lying!”

             “Well, we wouldn’t _have_ to keep secrets if you weren’t so goddam creepy about everything in the first place!”

              “Creepy!?” Abigail spluttered, all righteous indignation. “What’s so creepy about wanting to know what my friends are up to!?”

            Seeming to intrinsically sense that there was an impending cat-fight set to take place at any moment, should either one of the adversaries make one wrong move, both Anthony and Timothy chose at that moment to draw nearer to the women in case their assistance was needed in breaking them apart.

            “Maybe there’s a good reason you aren’t told things.” Caitlyn suggested.

             “Yeah, like _what_ , Kate?” Abigail challenged.

            Accepting such a challenge with all the coolness of Jethro squaring off with a crazed and half-mad hostage-taker, Caitlyn squared her shoulders and gave her answer quite proudly.

            “You’re just not a good friend, is all.”

            Looking very much like Caitlyn had just stricken her full on in the face, Abigail gasped loudly and allowed her jaw to drop for a but a spell as she worked to recover herself.

            “Why would you even _say_ that?!” Abigail cried, conjuring up tears in a suspiciously rapid manner. “ _You’re_ the one who hid the fact that Rose is pregnant from me! What kind of friend does _that_!?”             

            “Oh my god, you’re a creep! You have no boundaries at all, do you?” Caitlyn interrogated. “You’re absolutely psychotic and you need help!”

            “Well, you’re a bitch.” Abigail eloquently responded. “No wonder Toby dumped you.”  

            Although Ducky had never been one to outright advocate for violence, given that he had lived long enough to see that it seldom did any good, he could not say, with any shred of honesty, that Abigail had not asking for an ass-whooping with that little remark of hers. For while Caitlyn had finally come to a point where she no longer felt anything toward the man who had dumped her for taking too long to recover after getting shot, not even anger, she _was_ most understandably more than just a little sensitive when it came to insinuations that it had somehow been _her_ fault for getting shot. And, as such, he could have no real qualms against the manner in which an outraged Caitlyn launched herself at a startled Abigail – even if he _was_ somewhat thankful for that Timothy pulled her back at the last moment.

            “Stop!” Timothy growled, holding tightly to Caitlyn even as she gradually deflated.

            “You too, Abs.” Anthony ordered, quickly snatching the goth from behind to keep her from swinging at a defenseless Caitlyn. “You _know_ Ducky doesn’t like fighting on his property!”

             Refusing to be cowed by anyone but Gibbs, and sometimes not even then, Abigail clamped down hard on Anthony’s thumb to free herself from his grasp and angrily spun around to confront him with all the vehemence of a woman who had been unjustly wronged.

            “I wouldn’t be so angry if I hadn’t found out _you_ were lying to me, too!”

            “Abby,” Anthony frowned, “How much have you had to drink?”

            “Don’t get smart with me, Tony!” Abigail cried. “I found these in your coat pocket!”

            Effectively drawing the entire backyard into a stunned, and awkward, silence as she removed her black jeans a series of brightly colored lip-glosses, Abigail further compounded her grave faux-pa by asking her next question loudly enough to for the dead to hear.

            “When were you going to tell me you were trans!?” Abigail demanded.

             Deciding then and there that it was high time for him to intervene, as the simple squabble between two women had quickly become an uncomfortable interrogation of a closeted transgender individual, Ducky hurried over to the scene of the crime just in time to watch Anthony flee the scene and Caitlyn launch herself at Abigail in retaliation for upsetting her best friend.

            “For God’s sake,” Ducky thundered, stepping in between the two to prevent Caitlyn from viciously assaulting her antagonizer, “This is a barbeque not a gladiator pit! What on _Earth_ had gotten into you two!?”

            “Abby’s been snooping through everyone’s things again!” Caitlyn cried, face still flushed with rage even as she allowed Timothy to pull her back a few feet.

            “Only because everyone keeps lying to me!” Abigail rounded, crocodile tears shining in her eyes even as she petulantly tossed the lip-glosses at Caitlyn.

            By that point having suffered Abigail’s rudeness to the point where he could tolerate it no longer, Hamish pushed his way through the gawking crowd to play the part of the missing Jethro.

            “That is more than enough from the two of you!” Hamish growled, a dangerous glint showing in his eyes as he glowered both young women down into submission.

             Rewarding his husband with a small smile for all the assistance he had rendered, as he highly doubted _he_ , himself, could have managed to so successfully cow both angry women into a sullen silence, Ducky took advantage of the sudden pliancy of both women by securing his hand around Abigail’s skinny arm.

            “I do believe I’ve already informed you, more than once, that your intrusive ways would no longer be tolerated on my property.” Ducky lectured, leading her away. “And, as such, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

            Instinctively digging her heels into the ground to prevent herself from being forced into doing something she didn’t wish to do, Abigail looked up into his face with wide, tear-filled, eyes and protested as well as she could against such a blaring injustice.

            “Ducky, I was only being curious – “

            “Hamish, be a dear and help me assist Abigail to the door, would you?”

            A solid and veritable lumberjack of a man, Hamish’s powerful grip on Abigail’s remaining arm was more than enough to coax the young girl into moving again.

            “I don’t understand why _I’m_ the one being thrown out.” Abigail pouted. “ _Kate_ was the one who nearly murdered me!”

            Wordlessly throwing open the back door so that Hamish could wrestle the wriggling girl into the building without needing to slacken his grip, Ducky followed silently after in the aims of preventing escape.

            “As well she should have!” Hamish swiftly assured, all but dragging her into the front foyer.

            “Ducky!” Abigail cried, full of offense.

            Still bristling with a righteous anger himself, Ducky could scarcely find any words to spare on the troublesome young girl until he had counted to ten.

            “Your self-centered behavior has _always_ disgusted me, Abigail.” He began, removing her jacker from the closet she had just so recently violated. “But now I am absolutely appalled by it. That you think it was in any way acceptable, or even justified, to out Anthony in front of a crowd like that is just deplorable. And I haven’t even the words to properly convey by disappointment in you at the moment.”

            And, thus said, he waspishly tossed the leather coat at her person before angrily stomping forward to throw open his front door.

            “I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Abigail defended, “I just wanted to know what everybody was lying to me about.”

            “Be that as it may, you _did_ cause a scene, and in my own home nonetheless.” Ducky lectured. “And for no other reason then that your ego was wounded. And I simply won’t have that sort of behavior taking place here.”

            “You’re throwing me out!?”

            Unable to keep from thinking that the elder Scuito’s and Jethro had done Abigail absolutely no favors in life if said woman _still_ wasn’t able to contemplate the idea of her actions having consequences, despite nearing her thirties, Ducky pursed his lips and raised no protests as Hamish unceremoniously deposited their former houseguest unto the doorstep.

            “You’re no longer welcome in my home.” Ducky calmly informed.

            “But I rode over with _Gibbs_!” Abigail cried, feeling quite sorry for herself.

            “You live near enough to manage the journey on foot.” Ducky assured, knowing the distance to only be two-and-a-half miles. “Perhaps the walk might do you some good and allow you some time to reflect.”

            Looking as if Ducky had just suggested she walk across a desert barefoot, Abigail shook her head and turned a pair of puppy-dog eyes unto his person.

            “Abigail,” Ducky sighed, “I don’t much think you’d want to be alone with Jethro any time soon. I suggest you start marching.”  


	14. Chapter 14

            While Tony absolutely _loathed_ being sent off to bed for any reason other than being sick, as such a command never served to make him feel like anything other than a naughty child, he found that he wasn’t so keen about rebelling against such an order when it meant being brought out of the spotlight Abby’s actions had immediately put him under. Because even though he understood that those who had bared witness to such an atrocious outing didn’t revile him one bit for a being a little confused when it came to matters of his gender identity, and instead took umbrage with Abby’s lack of restraint and mercy, he still couldn’t help but feel more than a little mortified that more than half-a-dozen people now had concrete evidence that he was an irredeemable faggot.

            Which meant that when Gibbs had finally been talked out of murdering Abby by a remarkably calm and strong-willed Ducky, and likewise a more persistent Hamish, Tony had raised no protests at all when the skinny Medical Examiner had suggested he go and lie down for a spell. Because being fully grown aside, which he most certainly was, the long hour he had spent having an intense meltdown in his host’s bathroom _had_ taken quite a lot out of him.

            “You’ll feel better after you’ve slept for a bit.” Gibbs hummed, pulling back the blankets of the bed in Ducky’s guest room. “You’ll see.”

            Now, had it been anyone _else_ to give voice such a cliché and nonsensical answer, Tony would have scoffed aloud at the very idea that a little nap would do any real good to fix his turmoil. But, as it was, it was all-knowing Dad who was making such a claim, and Gibbs knew almost _everything_ there was to know about life – save for maybe electronics, but _still_. Possessing ninety percent of the world’s knowledge was nothing to sneeze at.

            “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

            It was, he knew, an admittedly childish question, but one he felt he couldn’t avoid asking, as he no more wished to awaken from his nap to make the awkward trudge downstairs without his father to serve as a gruff buffer then he desired to make the discovery that Gibbs had used his naptime as a prime opportunity to hunt down Abby and subsequently become a fugitive. Because even though Tony was still absolutely furious with the young woman for all the awful things she’d done of late, especially his untimely outing, he still didn’t wish for her get seriously hurt. _Or_ for his father to go to prison for life.

            “Nah, I promised Ducky and Hamish I’d help clean up.” Gibbs assured, waiting patiently until Tony had crawled atop the blankets to lower the quilt over his frame.

            Having never been one to protest against a little bit of much-needed coddling, especially when it was his father doling it out, Tony closed his sore eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow and pliantly allowed Gibbs to tuck him in.

            “Ducky isn’t mad I ruined his party, is he?” Tony worried, pressing his tear-stained cheek into one of the plump pillows.       

            For as trivial as the well-being of a barbeque seemed to him at the moment, Tony still highly-regarded his uncle-figure and wished only happiness for him.

            “ _You_ didn’t ruin anything, Kiddo.” Gibbs calmly insisted, smoothing down his disheveled hair. “And don’t worry too much about the party. It’s starting to rain anyways.”  

            “Oh.” Tony mumbled, somewhat relieved to discover that he wasn’t solely at fault for the party’s untimely end. “I still shouldn’t have barricaded myself in the closet though. I’m sorry.”

            “You were having a panic-attack, Tony. No one blames you for needing to get away.”

            Even though it was true that he was, indeed, having a full-fledged panic attack beneath the musty piles of coats Ducky liked to store in his closet for some inexplicable reason, he still couldn’t help but feel a little childish for tying a series of ties around the door handles to bar anyone from entering while he was struggling for breath. Because if such an act hadn’t exactly been childish, it most certainly had been more than just a little dramatic.

            “Don’t be embarrassed, Tony.” Gibbs persisted, seeing his frown. “At least you weren’t caught snooping around.”      

            Deepening his frown to show his outright displeasure at Abby’s appalling lack of restraint being referenced to so soon, Tony huffed loudly into the pillow concealing half his face and yanked the blankets further up over his shoulder.

            “You know I wouldn’t do something like that.” He grumbled, ever keen to defend his honor.

            “I know, Tony.” Gibbs quickly pacified. “I was trying to be funny.”

            Far too polite and respectful of his father-figure to inform him that his attempts at humor had been in vain, Tony simply rolled his eyes beneath his closed lids and only hoped that Gibbs would fail to notice the slightly rude gesture and reciprocate with a slap to the back of his head.

            “I saw that.” Gibbs immediately informed. “But since you’re sad I’ll let it slide.”

            “Does that mean that I’ll be immune to headslaps if I become depressed?” Tony investigated. “Because I’m completely willing to – Ow!”

            Eyes popping open as a hot and stinging pain radiated down his thigh from the slap Gibbs had landed on his right ass cheek, Tony hissed loudly between clenched teeth and immediately rolled unto his back to prevent and further assault on his ass cheeks from taking place.

            “It’s like you enjoy being in trouble.” Gibbs sighed, making up for his slap by readjusting the blankets over Tony’s frame again.

            “Attention is attention.” Tony cheekily replied.

            “As if you don’t already get enough attention as it is.” Gibbs grumbled, rising to his feet to make his way over to window.

            Possessing no real means to refute the very honest statement that he was constantly receiving attention of some sort, if not from his father than by his colleagues and/or friends, Tony stuck out his bottom lip in a pout that, while earnest, didn’t last very long as he watched Gibbs lovingly draw the curtains of the windows so that the minimal sunlight being provided by the sun wouldn’t disturb him as he rested.

            “Dad?” Tony ventured, emboldened by his father’s affections.

            “Yeah, Kiddo?” Gibbs asked, carefully tying the ornate curtains together.

            “Is…Abby’s not in trouble, is she?”

            And while he couldn’t help but feel a little ridiculous in asking such a question, given with the knowledge he possessed of his father’s vengeful nature, he didn’t immediately retract the inquiry even when Gibbs gave him a very incredulous look. Because even though he was still currently very angry at Abby for blabbing to the world that he was confused gender-wise, and would likely not speak to her again for several days, he _still_ didn’t want anything to happen to her beyond a mild reproach from Gibbs, as she was _far_ too sensitive to withstand an ass-reaming from his father or an ass-kicking from the surprisingly muscular Kate.

            “Tony, Abby is in a whole metric fuckton of trouble.” Gibbs calmly assured, subconsciously making use of the millennial lingo he had picked up from Sarah. “However much that is.”

            “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”

            Promptly met with a very alarming silence in response to such an innocent and simple question, Tony bolted upright and threw a pillow at Gibbs.

            “Dad!”

            Effortlessly catching the pillow with just one hand, despite having his back half-turned, Gibbs sighed loudly and rolled his eyes before returning the pillow to its proper place at the head of the bed.

            “Fine, I won’t _kill_ her.” Gibbs sighed, looking very much put out.

            Seeing as how that stipulation was only one out of hundreds, Tony failed to take any real comfort from such a promise and immediately set out to ascertain just what his father was planning to do so he could prevent it and keep his conscious clear.

            “Then what _are_ you going to do?”

            “I think Morrow needs to hear about this, Tony.”

            “But he’ll fire her!” Tony cried, frantically attempting to disentangle himself from his blankets.

            Wisely suspecting that Tony was either going to have yet another panic-attack or one of his notorious fits of madness wherein he attempted to prevent him leaving via wrapping his legs and arms around his legs, the likes of which had _never_ bode well for either of them, Gibbs quickly hurried back to the bed and firmly pushed him back down against the mattress as gently as he could.

            “Tony,” Gibbs sighed, seating himself on the side of the bed so he could keep him still via a hand on his shoulder, “It’s not like she hasn’t been warned about this type of behavior before.”

            “I still don’t want her fired, Dad.” Tony protested, giving the best puppy-dog eyes he could muster.  

            “Tony,” Gibbs frowned, “She’s been behaving inexcusably inappropriately. And not just towards you, either.”           

            “But…” Tony faltered. “We can’t _prove_ she’s been a creep.”

            Because even though there had been _several_ incidences of Abby being caught snooping through everyone’s things, particularly Tim’s belongings once he had begun dating Rose, and even _more_ incidences of her going through people’s phones, and _even more_ occurrences of her harassing him about his sex life, it would be hard as hell to conjure up proof of any of that.

            “Tony, half-a-dozen people just watched her behave pretty inappropriately towards you, Kate, _and_ Rose.”

            “But that wasn’t at work!” Tony heartily defended.

            “Tony,” Gibbs sighed, “Why are you so hellbent on protecting her?”

            Disliking Gibb’s disappointment way more than his wrath, Tony felt his heart sink at the clear frustration in his father’s voice. Because if there was only one thing he hadn’t been able to learn after a terrible childhood spent with Senior, it was how to handle someone’s disappointment in you.

            “I don’t want everyone finding out about me!” Tony snapped, reacting to discomfort the way he always did. “And they _will_ if Abby gets fired!”  

            Because even though he liked to think that Abby wouldn’t maliciously retaliate against him by outing him to the whole entire yard, he knew that enough people (men) adored her enough to avenge her in just such a fashion – with, or without, her permission.

            “Tony, she’s had half-a-hundred chances to reform herself. I _can’t_ keep letting it slide. It’s not fair to the rest of the team. I mean, for God’s sake, had it been anyone but her pulling this shit, they’d have been gone a long time ago.”

            “But you’ve let me get away with a lot of shit!” Tony protested, unwilling to surrender so easily.

            “Not at work I haven’t.” Gibbs firmly refuted. “I don’t believe in nepotism.”

            Even though Tony had more than enough evidence to disabuse his father of such a ridiculous notion, like namely the way he was very often granted an extra ten minutes for his lunchbreaks, he tucked that argument away for a later time given that a much more important conversation was currently at hand.

            “Dad,” Tony pleaded, “I don’t want Abby fired because of me.”    

            “But it wouldn’t be because of you.” Gibbs argued.

            “I still don’t want you to make a complaint against her to Morrow!” Tony cried, quickly losing his patience. “Why don’t you _get_ that!?”

            “Tony,” Gibbs pleaded, once more smoothing his hair, “You need to stop putting yourself last. If people hurt you it shouldn’t be your first instinct to blame yourself.”

            Unable to keep from thinking that it was more than easy for his father to say something so trite, as _he_ had never been raised having to fight for and earn affection, Tony scowled deeply and tried, once more, to get Gibbs to see reason.

            “Abby was just upset – “

            “It doesn’t matter _why_ she was upset. She still behaved inappropriately.” Gibbs mildly lectured. “And that’s all there is to it.”            

            “So, you’re just going to go to Morrow anyways? No matter what _I_ think?”

             “As the lead of the team, I have to.” Gibbs answered. “But as a _parent_ , I’ll threaten to skin him alive if word gets out.”

            Knowing that his father was never one to make idle threats when it came to protect him, yet still somewhat conflicted about tossing Abby to the wolves, Tony tried one last time to convince his father not to turn her in – albeit much less passionately as he had before.

            “Abby is going to be so mad at me.”

            “She can be as mad as she wants to be.” Gibbs shrugged. “She was the one who got herself into this mess.”

            Still not completely at ease, as Abby could become quite creepy when scorned, and outright violent when provoked, Tony grimaced and turned to his father with the full intentions of conveying some of his very real worries to him.

            “Don’t you worry about Abby.” Gibbs ordered, tucking him in once more. “I’ve always got your six.”   

            Even though he hadn’t outright gotten exactly what he wanted during the whole negotiation, that being Abby going undisciplined, Tony figured that he had at least done his due diligence in saving her from outright murder.

            “Now get some sleep.” Gibbs directed, smoothing his hair once last time before taking his leave.


	15. Chapter 15

            The astonishingly beautiful Dr. Lavinia Sinclair, despite looking as skinny and as fragile as a fire-weakened twig, was likewise a remarkably formidable young woman possessive of unsmiling lips and a natural expression stern enough to make even the grisliest of drill sergeants nervous. And while Tony knew himself to be in no real danger of being coerced into doing pushups until he felt on the verge of throwing up, or elsewise demoted to kitchen duty, he found he still couldn’t rest easy upon the couch given that her piercing brown eyes were focused upon his face with a patient intensity that had all the hairs on his body sticking up.

In sort, Tony could easily decipher just why his father both appreciated _and_ loathed the therapist so much. Because while she was certainly pretty enough to tempt any straight man, even _Gibbs_ despite her lack of red hair, her sense of stubbornness and persistent refusal to be cowed or redirected was more than enough to aggravate someone who was so used to being completely in charge of all aspects of his life.

But, whereas _he_ was concerned, Tony felt only intimidation and anxiety where his father would have experienced impatience and mild hostility. Because while he had been made to understand that Dr. Sinclair was a perfectly respectable and nonjudgmental professional, with _several_ degrees and high recommendations, he still couldn’t help but feel more and more judged the longer she remained silent. And, given that he had spent a good twelve minutes waiting for _her_ to speak first, he was very nearly on the cusp of a panic attack thinking of all the things she might be thinking of him.

“Am I supposed to have a summary or something prepared?” Tony finally blurted, his back beginning to ache from his nerves-induced rigid posture. “Or an itemized list of everything that’s wrong with me?”

Blinking slowly at him with large brown eyes, Dr. Sinclair resembled a boa constrictor narrowing in on its prey as she leaned forward half-an-inch and assailed him with a scrutiny that made him feel stark naked.

“ _Is_ something wrong with you?” She inquired, her voice disconcertingly hypnotic.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Tony deflected, trying for a little but of humor.

Startled beyond belief when Dr. Sinclair’s unlined face failed to register _any_ response at all to his piss-poor attempt at deflection, not even the mild irritation he was so very used to, Tony felt beads of nervous sweat beginning to rise up on the back of his neck. Because while Tony was somewhat familiar with the concept of not everyone outright liking him, or enjoying his company, he had seldom ever been in the presence of a person he couldn’t effortlessly read and classify into a certain subset of characters. And that downright frightened him – as it meant that all of the formulas and equations he had spent _years_ creating and perfecting, for the effortless pleasing and befriending of differing sorts of individuals, was utterly and laughably useless.

“Why _are_ you here, Anthony?” Dr. Sinclair pressed, effortlessly holding his gaze hostage with her inscrutable stare.

 Even though it was a cliched _and_ fair question he was being asked, Tony found he couldn’t help but bristle at its existence all the same. For not only had the unknowing therapist inadvertently used the formal and woefully more masculine form of his name, so too had she effortlessly reminded him of the invasive way the Director at the corrective-camp had interrogated him minutes upon arrival. The only difference being, of course, that Dr. Sinclair was gorgeous and mysterious whereas Mr. Fuckface had been morbidly obese and disgustingly upfront about his hatred toward Tony.

“My father made me come.” Tony finally managed, giving the slender therapist the same answer he had given the camp director all those years ago.

Even though Gibbs had not, in fact, dragged him into the large and imposing building via his hair like Senior had once did when he was ten and far too little to fight back against being forced into the scary campgrounds surrounded with large trees and imposing barbwire fences.

            “But _you’ve_ chosen to stay.” Dr. Sinclair countered, either oblivious or apathetic toward the discomfort her client was feeling. “Why is that?”

            More than just a little miffed that therapists didn’t have some sort of system set in place where a person could fill out some sort of brief dossier on the troubles plaguing them before they arrived, to eliminate some of the awkwardness of having to talk to a stranger about them in the first place, Tony scowled and glowered down at the white carpet before finally deciding to just rip the bandage off.

            “My father thought I should talk to someone about my…gender issues.” He shamefully divulged, unable to meet her eyes for fear of spotting any judgement within them.

            Feeling her lean forward by yet another half-inch increment rather than actually seeing it, Tony stiffened painfully and couldn’t help but feel like some sort of rare species under heavy scrutinization by a passionate scientist.

            “Do you agree with your father?” Dr. Sinclair investigated, her tone forever readable.

            “I’m here, aren’t I?” Tony snapped, feeling more than just a little cagey.

            Utterly oblivious to the fact that it was her closed-off attitude that had put him in such a distrustful, and slightly hostile, frame of mind, Dr. Sinclair pressed onward with a neutral perseverance that could have impressed even the loyalist of soldiers.

            “Yes,” She agreed, “But why?”         

            Unable to keep from feeling as if Dr. Sinclair’s question was one of a very egregiously stupid nature, as really what other reasons _were_ there for a person attending therapy aside from mental anguish, Tony actually gave into his childish feelings of resentment towards the woman and rolled his eyes before making his reply.

            “Because I think I’m a girl!” He snapped, finally drawing his eyes away from the carpet long enough to glare at her.

            Becoming all the more unsettled as she refused to react to his explosion in any other way than a slow, languid, blinking of her unexpressive brown eyes, Tony almost instantly found himself thinking up several escape plans with a fervor he usually only reserved for hunting down criminals or suspects.

            “ _Are_ you a girl?” Dr. Sinclair queried.

            Reluctantly figuring that there was no real reason to conceal the truth from the therapist he had been coerced into seeing, as his lies would only further drag out the already intolerable session taking place, Tony sighed loudly and reluctantly gave his answer to the unreadable woman setting directly across from him.

            “Yes.” He confessed, the word heavy and freeing all at once.

            Rigid posture remaining woefully unchanged in a gesture that seemed to suggest that patients with gender issues were frequent visitors to her office, Dr. Sinclair blinked once more and effectively held his gaze steady with the aid of her disconcertingly unexpressive eyes.

            “If you already know that you’re a girl, why are you here?” Dr. Sinclair asked, digging ever deeper into his psyche with an effortless ease.

            “How many times are you going to ask me that same damn question?” Tony growled, quickly becoming fed up with her lack of normal human expression.           

            Looking no more perturbed at his hostility than Gibbs would if squaring off against an angry Girl Scout, Dr. Sinclair simply quirked a well-groomed brow in his direction before pausing to take an overly-indulgent sip of her hot chocolate.

            “Until I receive an answer, I’ll keep asking that question.”

            Painfully unsure of whether or not his emotionless therapist had just threatened him with the promise of a small hostage situation should he chose not to start cooperating, and woefully uncertain of whether or not she was powerful enough to do so, Tony felt his stomach twist up into an uncomfortable knot of anxiety as he sat and pondered just how his father had managed to develop a keen, non-romantic, liking of just such a woman.           Because as much as he thought the world of his father, Tony wasn’t so naïve as to remain ignorant of the fact that Gibbs’s strong points weren’t in patience and being mentally overpowered. Nor, he reflected, were those strong points attributed he possessed himself.

            “My father made me come.” Tony angrily repeated, hating the way his tone resembled an indignant third-grader being made to attend church on the day of his best friend’s birthday party.

            “And yet you chose to stay.” Ms. Sinclair easily countered. “Why is that?”

            Finally losing patience after being asked that same damn question for the tenth fucking time in under fifteen minutes, by a veritable robot of a woman, Tony actually growled aloud in disgust before rising angrily to his feet and stomping off toward the door with the full intentions of putting an end to such a ridiculous ‘therapeutic’ session.

            It was only when he finally reached the door, after spending a good two minutes traversing the stretch of carpet between the couch and his exit, that Tony faltered and slowly removed his hand from the door knob. Because as much as he would have loved to stomp his admittedly dramatic ass out of that building and never return, which was _a lot_ , he realized at the last moment that Gibbs had very likely pad a great deal of money for that one session alone. And, as such, it would be quite dickish of him to not at least try to stick it out for the remainder of the hour. But that didn’t mean he was going to make things _easy_ for the inscrutable Dr. Sinclair. And, to show her just that, Tony shuffled as slowly as possible back to the couch before all but flopping himself back down upon the beguilingly firm cushions.

            “I guess I just wish that there wasn’t so much wrong with me.” Tony begrudgingly admitted, lowering himself unto his back to stare up at the ceiling.                    

            Not at all unphased by the rude manner in which her volatile patient had just very nearly quit the room, either because such stomp-outs occurred often to her person or because she got paid either way, Dr. Sinclair simply readjusted her posture to a slightly-less rigid position before addressing him as emotionlessly as before.

            “What would you say is wrong with you?”

            “I _just_ told you that I thought I was a girl!” Tony barked, hoping that a little bit of Gibbsness would cow her into showing emotion.

            Looking no more perturbed at Tony’s outburst than a priest would a fart during a particularly dry sermon, Dr. Sinclair simply blinked languidly before speaking once more.

            “We’ve already established that you’re a girl.” She stated evenly. “But what would you say is wrong with that?”

            “Maybe the fact that I’m supposed to be a _boy_?” Tony sarcastically questioned.

            “We’ve already come to the conclusion that you’re not.” Ms. Sinclair dismissed, methodically crossing her legs in what Tony could only assume was an attempt at getting comfortable. “Let’s move on.”

            His fiery irritation at her blatant neutrality almost instantly quenched upon recognizing she was one of the very first people, aside from Tim, to almost instantly take him at his word that he was, indeed, a girl, Tony allowed some of the resentment he had been harboring towards her to leave his body and subsequently addressed her more respectfully than he had been for the last fifteen minutes.

            “I just feel like my dad deserves more.” Tony divulged, still staring up at the unpainted ceiling. “You know, like a _normal_ kid.”  

            Because, really, what sort of father wanted to go from having a stereotype-adhering and gender-complying daughter to having a son whose brain was fucked up enough to trick him into thinking he was a girl.

            “Has your father done anything to make you feel that way?” Dr. Sinclair investigated, her voice betraying no emotion.

            Painfully insulted at the very idea that Gibbs had been anything less than the perfect father throughout their relationship, let alone his identity-crises, Tony felt his ears turn red in the telltale sign of his approaching anger and all but hissed his reply at the unfeeling therapist.

            “Of course not! My dad is great!” Tony angrily defended. “He’s been a _saint_ through all of this gender nonsense! And, before you ask, yes, I know that he loves me.”       

            Ever the unflappable woman, Dr. Sinclair tolerated his tone better than a non-sentient boulder would have.

            “And do you love him in return?”

            “Of course I do!” Tony waspishly hissed.

            “And yet you feel as if your father deserves more?” Dr. Sinclair pressed.

            Despite wishing to make it known to the robotic woman that relationships required more than just reciprocal love to work and survive, Tony restrained himself on the grounds that he didn’t wish to be asked his beliefs on what constituted a healthy relationship – as both Gibbs, and several others, had already informed him his beliefs on that matter were not healthy at all.                    “Senior does.” Tony grumbled, opting for a little bit of deflection.    

            “Who is Senior?” Dr. Sinclair inquired.

            Somewhat relieved that the his seemingly unfeeling therapist wasn’t omnipotent as well, for that would have been way too much for him to handle, Tony forced himself to eliminate some of his hostility by counting to ten.

            “He’s technically my ‘real’ father.” Tony explained, grimacing at the way the words tasted on his tongue.

            “I take it that your biological father isn’t supportive of you?” Dr. Sinclair questioned, both her face and tone impassive as hieroglyphics.

            Shuddering somewhat as he recalled the violent way in which Senior had scrubbed his face raw with a texture rag to remove the makeup from his face, as well as the many other incidences in which he had been physically assaulted by said man throughout his childhood, Tony found himself glaring up at the ceiling with an intensity that surprised him.

            “He’d rather I was dead than be this way.”

            And it was no mere exaggeration he was making either, for Senior had told him numerous times, in no uncertain terms, just such a thing.

            “I don’t think he’s ever loved me either, not for myself at least. Only as a doll or something he could parade around.” Tony supplemented. “But I was never the model or type of doll he wanted – no matter _how_ hard he tried to fix me.”           

            And, Good Lord, had that man tried everything to fix him – from painful belt-whippings in the garage for showing the slightest interest in feminine things to straight up conversion therapy and boarding schools when he grew far too large to knock around with ease and needed someone else to do it for him.

            “And what about your mother, how do you think she feels about all this?”

            Despite being one-hundred percent positive that his mother would have supported him in anything he chose to do, even if it meant going against everything she had initially planned for him, Tony found he couldn’t help but answer the question with a morbid frown.

            “She died when I was still young.”   

            And, even before that, she had been far too sick and frail to adequately protect him from Senior’s wrath and disappointment. Not that she hadn’t at least tried when she was well enough to do so. But still…It had been hard to get through eighteen years of an unrestrained Senior bearing down on him at every moment.

            “You only had Senior to rely upon growing up?” Dr. Sinclair asked, her neutral mask faltering briefly enough to allow Tony see a glimpse of sympathy.

            “For a while.” Tony confirmed. “At least until I was old enough to ship off to boarding school and camps.”

            And, even then, the people who had been put in charge of him at those places had hardly been any better than Senior was in building him up and making him feel valued.

            “Did your mother’s family ever try to intervene?” Dr. Sinclair probed.       

            Thinking with no small amount of resentment upon all the letters he had written begging to be allowed to move in with maternal grandparents being returned, and similar phone calls to his maternal aunts and uncles being promptly ended as soon as the subject came up, Tony clamped down hard on his bottom lip as he felt a suspicious heat beginning to grow in his eyes.

             “No. They were angry at my mother for marrying Senior in the first place, and even angrier with me for being born.” Tony divulged, impatiently blinking the moisture away. “And by the time my cousins were old enough to want to meet their American cousin, it was clear enough that I was ‘off’ that none of my aunts and uncles decided to keep fostering a relationship.”

            And, as if that little bit of shunning had not been emotionally devastating enough, his maternal uncle _still_ , to this very day, refused to give him his potion of his mother’s inheritance. Not out of greed, no, more purely out of a vengeful desire to rub salt into the already gaping wound that had emerged the day he had realized no one had really wanted him when he was a child.  

            “And when did your father step into the picture.” Dr. Sinclair asked, her face an impassive mask once more.

            “Almost as soon as he hired me to a part of his team.” Tony honestly answered, a small smile tugging at the corners his lips. “He said he saw something special in me.”   

            And, even though that moment had been _years_ ago, and had taken his father two years to confess, Tony _still_ go warm fuzzy feelings in his stomach whenever he recalled that day.

            “What do you think that special something was?”

            Not even needing to rack his mind for an answer, or hazard a guess, as Gibbs had already told him the answer a long time ago, Tony allowed himself a small smile before bringing his therapist up to date.

            “He told me that he instinctively felt as if I was the son he always wanted.”

            “And how did you feel in return?” Dr. Sinclair questioned.

            “I felt like he was my father way before he thought of me as a son.” Tony confessed, feeling a slight blush creeping up unto his cheeks. “But he never made me feel weird about it.”

            Seeming almost pleased now that Tony was actively contributing to the session, or at least as pleased as an unfeeling mold of flesh could appear, Dr. Sinclair relaxed her harsh posture marginally before pressing onward with enviable perseverance.

            “And do you think your relationship had changed now that you’re a girl?”

            “No…not really.” Tony squirmed. “I know he still loves me, it’s just…I can’t help but think he wishes I was still a boy.”

            “Has your father given you any signs that he would prefer you remain a boy?” Dr. Sinclair interrogated.

             Unable to assert with one-hundred-percent confidence that his earlier assertion was true, as not only had Gibbs failed to articulate such a view so too had he outright denied it, Tony frowned in frustration and wondered if, perhaps, he really was quick to put words into other people’s mouths.

            “No…But it’s not fair on him for me to a boy for so long only to spring on him that I’m actually a girl all these years later.” Tony prevaricated. “I mean, that’s one hell of a surprise.”  

            Because even _if_ Gibbs made no secret of preferring female agents over that of their male counterparts, on specious grounds that women were better at mentally recreating crime scenes and sketching out a rough idea of where a suspect might be hold up, Tony was not so naïve as to believe that his gender-confusion _hadn’t_ at least marginally troubled Gibbs – even if said man refused to admit it.

            “Tony,” Dr. Sinclair began, thankfully using the shortened version of his name, “I am the _eleventh_ child and _eleventh_ girl of my parents, and yet I’m still the favorite despite not being the miracle boy they were hoping for on their last try.” And sitting up a bit straighter, she added: “What I am trying to say, Ms. DiNozzo, is that the majority of parents quickly adapt the initial, yet brief, disappointment that comes when they receive one particularly-sexed child over the one they had first hoped for. So, even operating on the slightest chance that your father _is_ currently disappointed that he no longer has a son, those feelings won’t last very long at.”

            Far too indignant upon hearing the slightest insinuation that was Gibbs was anything short of a perfect parent to register any surprise that Dr. Sinclair was finally showing some measure of emotion and humanity, Tony finally sat up right and swung around to glare at the impassive and skinny woman sitting before him.

            “Gibb’s isn’t disappointed at all.” Tony hotly defended, in his outrage unknowingly refuting what he had just said only moments ago. “He was just surprised at first, that’s all!”

            “Then tell me, why are you here?” Dr. Sinclair inquired, effectively wearing him down again in the space of seconds with her original question.

            “I just…I just feel like I keep getting worse and worse. I mean, first I was gay and then… _this_.” Tony sighed, allowing himself to slouch against the back of the sofa. “I can only imagine what’s coming next.”            

            Because with the rate things were currently going, Tony was going to be a goddamn fury next – it not something worse.

            “Tony, are you implying that gay, female, and transgendered individuals are blights?”

            Blushing profusely as he realized the inadvertent and inaccurate insinuation he had just made, in front of an individuals who was at least one of those things at the very least, Tony squirmed uncomfortably and only hoped he could end the session without Dr. Sinclair thinking he was a total asshole. Because if an unfeeling woman such as _she_ felt that he was one, then there was no denying that he was.

             “I just feel like the cards are constantly being stacked against me.” He tried to deflect.

            “Has it ever occurred to you that cards can be reshuffled?” Dr. Sinclair calmly countered, once more becoming as erect as a rod. “Or that certain cards that do you no good can likewise be _removed_ from your stack, with no real damage to yourself?”

            Thinking of just how _delicious_ it would be to remove the Senior card from his stack for good, along with those members of his maternal family that had left his languish under his unquestionably poor care, Tony sat up straighter himself and allowed a small smile to grace his face.

            “You’re right.” He appropriately acknowledged.

            Although Tony wouldn’t be able to say with any amount of accuracy that a smug expression had crossed his therapist’s face in response to such an acknowledgment, given that he had blinked at the worse moment, upon a future, and heated, discussion with his father, he would conclude that there was at least a twenty percent possibility that such an expression had occurred.

            “Are there any other issues you care to discuss in the last ten minutes allotted to you?” Dr. Sinclair asked, effectively distracting him from his not-to-subtle dissection of her seldom used facial muscles.

            “That’s not a whole lot of time.” Tony pointed out with a frown.

            Pausing their conversation long enough to take a very ingratiating and lengthy sip of her inexplicably still-steaming hot chocolate, Dr. Sinclair eyed him with a shrewd expression before reminding him of his earlier crime.

            “I’ll remind you that you spent the first half-hour of this session glaring at my wall.”

            “It’s an obscenely ugly color.” Tony shrugged, not enjoying being called out on his behavior when his father had very like spent at least $200 dollars on the session.

            “The color of my wall is three shades away from that of your sweater.” Dr. Sinclair calmly rebuttled.

            Absurdly offended at the very idea that his canary-yellow sweater was anywhere _near_ close in resemblance to the disgusting squash color assaulting the walls around them, yet far too emotionally exhausted to wish to enter into such a debate with a seemingly unfeeling individual, Tony maturely refrained from issuing forth an argument on the matter – wishing at the very least to consult his artist of a father on the matter before making a fool of himself.

            “I should be going.” Tony once more deflected. “My dad and I are heading to a game after this.”

            Appearing to be far more interested in her unseasonal beverage than she was in him, now that their session was at a close and she stood to garner neither money nor results out of him, Dr. Sinclair primly waved him off with a rather elaborate waving of her skinny hand.

            “I’ll see you next week at the same time.” She decided, without his input, as he finally reached the door.

            “Right.” Tony obediently agreed, despite being only fifty-fifty on whether or not he wanted to return. “See you then.”

            “In the meantime, do you tell your father to stop barking at my new assistant.” Dr. Sinclair directed. “Lisa is half-deaf, _not_ incompetent.”  

            Hastily mumbling some half-assed reply comprised of a promise to speak to his father about his tone of address as well as a half-hearted wish that she had a good afternoon, Tony all but fled the building as quickly as he could before slowing his pace in the parking lot enough so as not to startle a lightly-napping Gibbs as he crawled into the vehicle via the passenger-side door.

            “Hey, Princess.” Gibbs yawned, his unshakable Marine senses having compelled him to wake the very moment his child’s hand touched the door handle. “How – “

            Not even bothering to be polite enough to allow his father to finish his sentence before flinging himself at him and wrapping him in a bear hug, Tony buried his face in Gibb’s shirt and mumbled his short speech into the sawdust-smelling fabric.

            “Thanks, Dad. For _everything_.”

            “I think I should be the one thanking _you.”_ Gibbs patiently countered, smoothing down his hair. “But you’re welcome all the same.”


	16. Chapter 16

            Feeling every bit the preening peacock as she took notice of the way in which her best friend was currently fawning over the six-dozen pink roses Seamus had bought her for no other reason than to celebrate ‘the fact that she existed,’ Kate smiled brightly and leaned down to sniff at the heavily-perfumed blooms right as Tony did the same.

            “See, I _told_ you that your surgeon was the way to go.” Tony bragged, gently molesting the petals of the flowers with his fingers. “He was so gentle with you through your recovery.”

            Knowing herself well enough to know that she would begin blushing profusely if she allowed herself to dwell on any of the tenderness and acts of affection Seamus had done for her while she had recuperated in the hospital, namely the way he had helped her bathe for the first time in the long weeks following getting shot after he had discovered how much she hated not being able to wash her hair, Kate quickly racked her brain for a way to direct the conversation unto a safer topic.

            “And I told _you_ to wear comfortable shoes.” Kate scolded, glancing down at his stylish, yet clearly just-for-looks, shoes. “Those are going to be a bitch to shop in.”

            “I’ll be _fine_ , Kate.” Tony instantly dismissed, seemingly offended at the very idea that _any_ of his fashion choices were in any way questionable.

            “Your feet will be bleeding by the end of the day.” She argued, thinking of the time she had been stupid enough to go shopping with her sorority sisters in four-inch heels.

            Because even though it had nearly been more than a decade since that fateful afternoon, Kate swore she could still feel the hellish blisters that had cropped up on her heels that day and the blood that had filled her heels the very moment they had popped open on the escalators.

            “I’ll be _fine_ , Kate.” Tony argued, dipping into her kitchen to steal a can of pop from the fridge.

            “For Gods sake, would you just borrow a pair of Seamus’s shoes?” Kate grumbled, yanking open the shoe-closet in her entryway to look for a pair.

            Ducking back out of her kitchen just in time to see her removing a pair of dark brown boots from the repurposed broom closet just teeming with foot ware, Tony grimaced and shook his head in outright refusal to even consider the boots as an option before peering into the methodically organized storage space himself.

            “Has Seamus _already_ moved in?” Tony questioned, taking quick notice of all the men’s shoes relegated into the furthest corner of the space.

            Despite knowing perfectly well that Tony wasn’t at all judging her for having had Seamus moved in so quickly to her apartment, but was rather just surprised given her somewhat prudish nature about certain things, Kate still couldn’t help but defend her actions to her friend.

            “It’s been three weeks…”

            In all actuality it had only been two-and-a-half, but Kate wasn’t about to divulge that little tidbit so easily – not even to her best friend in the whole entire world.

            “Caitlyn Elizabeth, what would your mother say?” Tony mockingly scolded.

            “I honestly don’t think she would be as angry over the premarital sex as she would about the fact that it’s with an Irishman.” Kate confessed, tossing a pair of Seamus’s shoes at Tony’s unexpecting feet. “Here, try these.”       

            No even deigning to pick up the shoes for a better examination of their quality, Tony grimaced in clear distaste at the bargain-store shoes and immediately shook his head in staunch refusal.

            “I am _not_ wearing brown shoes with black pants.” Tony argued.

            “Just trust me on this, Tony.” Kate sighed. “You’re going to want comfortable shoes if we’re going shopping.”

             “You act like I don’t know what is shopping is like.” Tony grumbled, refusing to back down from the argument at hand. “Even though I did _a lot_ of shopping when I was a boy.”

            Having already seen irrefutable proof of just such a fact last summer, during which time she had spent a good three days organizing his clothes closets for him as a special birthday favor, Kate was woefully unable to tackle that part of the argument with any real hope of success. So, instead, she focused on the point that she _could_ successfully argue.

            “That may be, but when _boys_ shop it’s at only one store and then they’re done.” Kate calmly reasoned. “When _girls_ shop, they need to visit more than just one store. Which means we’ll be doing _a lot_ of walking.”  

            Pursing his lips in the very Gibbs-like fashion he had developed over the years to show his frustration at the situation at hand, Tony sniffed prissily and used his foot to gently push the seemingly-offensive shoes away from his person.

            “I’m still not wearing those.”

            By that point in time far more interested in the victory of the argument, rather than the merit of such itself, Kate narrowed her eyes in warning at her best friend before popping into the closet once more to hunt down a hopefully more appealing pair of shoes for the stubborn man standing in her entry way.

            “How about these?” Kate impatiently demanded, unearthing a brand-new set of black work boots. “I forgot to throw them out with the rest of Toby’s shit.”

            Instantly dropping the pair of boots the very moment he was informed they had belonged to Toby the Asshole, a man much-loathed by the entire team, Tony grimaced and looked ready to chuck the foot apparel out the window and into the street.

            “Not only will I _not_ wear something that douche has worn, ever, but those are way too small anyways.” Tony priggishly informed. “Which likely means that his – “

            “It was small.” Kate confirmed. “But how about these?”     

            Giving Seamus’s sole pair of ‘fancy’ shoes a very dismissive, yet understandable, sniff, Tony shook his head once more and crossed his arms in a clear display of stubbornness.

            “I’d rather wear _crocs_.”

            Despite having spent at least half of her relationship with Seamus nagging him to buy a more stylish and appropriate pair of ‘fancy’ shoes, Kate was a steadfast and loyal girlfriend and, as such, refused to voice her impassioned agreements with Tony that her boyfriend’s shoes really were no better than a pair of crocs.

            “Fine.” Kate impatiently huffed. “But don’t come bitching to me when your feet start bleeding.”

            “And don’t come bitching to me when Gibbs chews you out.” Tony easily countered.

            Understandably more than just a little confused at such a statement, as she couldn’t think of anything she had recently done that would make Gibbs angry with her, Kate frowned in confusion and tried to rack her brain for an answer before finally surrendering to her curiosity after a good sixty seconds had passed.

            “Why would Gibbs chew me out?” Kate demanded, starting to slip her pink rain jacket on.          

            Every bit as dramatic as always, Tony made a great show of shuffling over to the door and opening it before making his reply.

            “Because I’m going to tell him you’re the reason we’re late.”

            “What!?” Kate cried, very nearly dropping her purse in sheer surprise.

            “It was nice knowing you.” Tony grinned, taking off into the open before Kate could even wrestle one of her shoes on.          


	17. Chapter 17

            Even though Gibbs was both tired and hungry as fuck by the time he had finally been able to hunt down his child and agents in whatever pretentious high-fashion shop they had inexplicably decided to hole up in for a good hour, his anger had almost instantly abated the very moment he realized how much fun, and how relaxed, his child was in just such an environment. Because even though he had started out the day with no real plans on doing anything other than walking around the mall a few times, or reading the newspaper, while the younger people goofed off and shopped, the slight irritation he had felt toward them for failing to meet up for lunch at the food court seemed little more than inconsequential when he waltzed into the posh establishment to find Tony in absolute raptures trying on the clothes that actually meshed with his gender-identity.

            “We we’re supposed to meet for lunch half-an-hour ago, Todd.” Gibbs grumbled, planting himself beside her on the sofa facing the dressing rooms.

            Having enough grace to at least look a _little_ bashful for her severe transgression, despite not being repentant at all, Kate grimaced apologetically before gesturing at the clearly exhausted McGee sitting on her other side.

            “Sorry, Gibbs, we lost track of time after running into Tim and Rose.”

            Damned if he was going to ruin everyone’s good time by bitching up a storm about the importance of keeping track of time, especially outside of work when it wasn’t really necessary, Gibbs simply made a good show of glaring at his sole female agent before sighing loudly and stealing a handful of popcorn from the bag Tim had in his hand.

            “Don’t let it happen again.” He growled, settling back against the couch cushions to face his duty as a father.

            “It won’t.” Kate full-heartedly avowed. “I promise.”

            Satisfied enough with his agent’s passionate declaration to do better in the future, at least for the moment, and now that he had a little popcorn in his empty belly, Gibbs nodded briskly in her direction before repositioning himself into a more relaxed posture in preparation for the long fashion show he was sure was awaiting him. And though Tim likewise did the same, with a similar exhaustion and defeat splayed across his no-longer-chubby features, he was far more successful in feigning genuine excitement when the feelings of his fiancée were at stake whereas Gibbs could only _affect_ interest in the activities currently taking place.

            “Alright, here I come.” Rose sang out pleasantly, emerging from the dressing room directly besides Tony’s in a skimpy purple bikini. “What do you think?”  

            His mother having raised him to be a gentleman when in the presence of tender-hearted women, which Tim’s fiancée most certainly was, Gibbs immediately turned away from the sight of Rose posing in her flimsy bathing suit – because as short as she was, which was comically so, the young woman in question was practically all breasts so far as her torso was concerned.

            “Yeah, the purple one is definitely the way to go.” Kate sagely advised. “But is that top going to keep everything where it needs to be?”

            Politely refraining from advising the young woman in question that the bathing suit top _already_ failed to contain all that it ought to, Gibbs hid his face behind a fashion magazine to hide the fierce blush that had crept up on his cheeks.

            “I hope it does.” Rose fretfully agreed. “What do you think Tim?”

            “I’m thinking something that isn’t appropriate to say in front of my boss.” Tim truthfully admitted. “But, yes, I agree with Kate. I like this one more than the green one.”

            Starting to question his sanity in ever having decided to stay in the store once he had realized there was an impromptu fashion show taking place, rather than simply hightailing it to the food court for some greasy food and coffee, Gibbs contemplated taking a phone call to avoid the awkwardness currently taking place. Because as much as he liked to think that he wasn’t _that much_ older than his agents, and their beaus, the age difference between them was most certainly distinct enough to make it entirely inappropriate for him to a part of their audience at the moment.

            “Gibbs, what do you think?” Rose questioned, painfully oblivious to the distinct discomfort she was causing him.

            “It’s certainly a swimsuit.” Gibbs managed to assess, still staring stubbornly at the pages of the magazine he had picked at random. “I’m sure it will hold up well in the water.”

            “Oh, for the love of God, Rose.” Tony groaned, standing on his tiptoes to peer out from his dressing room. “Put your boobs away before you give my dad an aneurism.”

            Growing all the more uncomfortable upon hearing Rose’s bodily assets described in such a blunt and irreverent manner, Gibbs buried his face even further into the pages of his magazine and fought to stave off the twinge of annoyance he felt when a lurking saleslady rolled her eyes at his actions.

            “I can’t help it that my breasts are big!” Rose heartily defended. “I’m _pregnant_.”

            “You’re only three months pregnant.” Kate argued. “So I don’t think that has anything to do with your huge – “

            Seeming to sense that his prickly boss was quickly getting to the point of losing his composure with the conversation currently taking place, and charitably wishing to prevent such an outcome, Tim sat up a bit straighter in his seat and smiled widely at his wife-to-be before skillfully changing the subject.

            “Tony, show us something of yours now.”   

            Fully expecting his flamboyant child to come flouncing out of his dressing room with all the energy of a young teenager showing off the face-full of makeup she had finally been allowed to wear for the first time, Gibbs was thoroughly surprised when his child ducked back down behind the dressing room door and refused to come out.

            “I can’t.” He whined. “I’m really nervous.”

            Understanding that a little bit of tough love was now being called for, at least in his sage opinion, Gibbs likewise sat up a little bit straighter and used his most authoritative voice to growl out the following:

            “I swear to God, Tony, if you aren’t out here in the next five seconds I’m going to break that damn door down.”

            “Alright, alright!” Tony grumbled, sounding a bit frazzled. “Just hold on a second!”

            Fully prepared to inform the dramatic little shithead that he had exactly five seconds, and not a moment more, Gibbs scowled and opened his mouth – only at the last moment to be promptly thwarted in his endeavors by the emergence of a slightly self-conscious Tony donned in a very form-fitting, and painfully low-cut, shirt. And Gibbs, God help him, just couldn’t keep from speaking the first thing that came to his mind.

            “Don’t you think that’s a little…slutty?” He asked, grimacing just as soon the final word had finished leaving his mouth.

            Already knowing that he had messed up greatly even _before_ Tony’s face had taken on an angry vein, Gibbs found the way that Kate bristled beside him more of a minor annoyance than anything else.

            “Gibbs,” She scowled, “I’m wearing the _exact_ same top.”   

            Knowing a challenge whenever he saw one, even those of the verbal persuasion, Gibbs shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and refused to even give her the satisfaction of a cursory glance.

            “You’re not my daughter.”

            “So, you’re okay with your _agent_ being a slut?”  Kate challenged, apparently feeling quite bold outside of work.

            Never one to enjoy having words put into his mouth, by _anyone_ , it was now Gibbs’s turn to scowl as he turned to look at Kate.

            “I never implied the shirt, itself, made someone a slut. I said the shirt, in itself, was slutty.” Gibbs defended. “And legally I’m not _allowed_ to tell you that you look like a slut in that shirt in the first place.”

            “But I do, right?” Kate badgered.

            Charitably refraining from slapping his errant agent upside the head for her sass, given that she was very likely just as hangry as he was at the moment, Gibbs simply glared in warning at her before issuing forth a question to the whole entire audience assembled.

            “Did anyone hear me say that?” Gibbs growled.

            “Well…not _explicitly_.” Rose ventured, trying to play the part of peace-keeper. “But – “

            “Why don’t we let Tony get a word in?” The lurking saleslady interrupted, looking quite keen to restore order into the dressing room.

            Thinking that it was, perhaps, for the best that they all refocus their attentions unto the individual responsible for their being there all at once, _before_ hurt feelings could elapse, Gibbs reluctantly gave up the argument in favor of making certain that his child was comfortable and not feeling ignored.

            “Well, Tony?” Gibbs asked. “What do you think?”

            “I really like it.” Tony admitted, somewhat bashfully.

            Caught between a rock and a hard place upon hearing such a confession, as he wasn’t willing to outright lie about actually liking the garment when he _didn’t_ despite wishing to preserve his child’s feelings, Gibbs sighed and opted for a little bit of a diversion to avoid being seen as a complete asshole.

            “I like the color.” He generously allowed. “But didn’t you pick out something less…”

            “Provocative?” Rose ventured, every bit as helpful as always.

            “Yes.” Gibbs agreed. “ _That_.”

            Seeming to take an absurd amount of offense at his commentary, despite not being connected to anyone in the group herself, the prim saleslady lurking nearby sniffed loudly and brought herself nearer.

            “She’s not sixteen.” The saleslady quipped. “And this isn’t the 1920s.”

            Spared from having to chew out the errant young woman himself as Tony stepped in and did so himself, Gibbs forced himself to relax back against the couch cushions and bit his tongue.           

            “Don’t talk to my dad like that.” Tony snapped.

            “Of course.” The skinny woman immediately obliged. “My apologies.”

            Clearly not enjoying the awkwardness of the situation at hand one bit, as her nature seemed to be an inherently sweet one, Rose shuffled awkwardly in place before timidly speaking up and restoring order.

            “Why don’t you try something else on?” She suggested.

            “Like what?” Tony questioned. “I’ve got, like, half-a-hundred things in here.”      

            “Well,” Gibbs began, staring at the bench overflowing with clothes, “What about that blue thing on top?”  

            Plucking up the garment to reveal a thankfully modest blouse, with neither a v-neck _nor_ lace, Tony held it up against the light and frowned before ducking back behind the dressing room door.

            “I think it’s more periwinkle than blue, Dad.” Tony suggested, once safely behind the door.

            “I’m sorry,” Gibbs grumbled, “But _which_ one of got accepted into the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Beaux-Art?”

            “Wait – what?” Tim exclaimed, almost in perfect unison with Kate.

            “How do you from being accepted into art school to being a Marine?” Rose questioned, genuinely curious rather than dubious.

            “When your father hides your acceptance letter until its too late to go.” Gibbs shrugged.

            “What the absolute fu – “

            “Please,” The Saleslady interrupted Kate, “There are young girls around.”

            Despite being almost one hundred percent positive that they were the only people currently in the little alcove allocated to the dressing rooms, apart from an elderly woman who had fallen asleep in one a good fifteen minutes ago, Gibbs kept himself civil for the sake of not being tossed out of the store before his daughter could make her purchases.

            “Where do you think I learned to be a bastard from?” Gibbs questioned, keeping his voice low.

            “Do _not_ answer that question.” Tony quipped from behind the door. “It’s a trap.”   

            “Oh, for God’s sake,” Gibbs groaned, both hungry and impatient, “Would you hurry up and dress?”


	18. Chapter 18

            While a year ago Gibbs would have never even considered the notion of having another daughter again, especially not after having lost Kelly so tragically, he could honestly say that he had been over the moon in regards to how things had turned out with Tony. Because while things pertaining to her gender had been rather tumultuous and stressful at first, more so than when she had come out as gay all those years ago, now that a full year had passed things were finally back to normal – or at least as normal as things could be with a theatric child like Tony.

            “ – And then Tom punched him straight in the nose.” Tony finished, holding his feet perfectly still as Gibbs applied purple polish to his toenails.

            Despite being not at all that keen about Tony nearly getting assaulted in that seedy bar Kate had dragged him to for karaoke night, as well as cheap tacos, Gibbs found he couldn’t be _too_ angry with his sole female agent as she had apparently been the one to first notice Tom at the bar and push him unto Tony. Because while he had yet to meet the chivalrous gentleman in question, a reality he would soon be amending, Gibbs felt as if the man in question couldn’t be all that bad if he had defended his daughter’s honor within only five minutes of meeting her.

            “So, we know the guy is romantic.” Gibbs allowed, applying careful brush strokes of the purple polish unto his daughter’s last toe. “But what else is he like?”

            Just as bashful as always, which was to say _not at all_ , Tony grinned dreamily enough to make Gibbs sick before clutching a throw pillow to his chest.

            “Well, he’s _really_ tall. Like, even taller than _us_.” Tony excitedly divulged, green eyes all aglow. “And cute, too! His hair is almost perfect and he’s _really_ muscular and – “

            “Alright, alright.” Gibbs interrupted, capping the fingernail polish. “He’s cute, I get it. But what’s his personality like?”

            Because even though it was an admittedly insipid question to ask, Gibbs found it necessary given the staggering number of losers Tony had dated throughout the years.

            “He’s really nice.” Tony readily supplied. “And funny. He had me laughing the whole way home – “

            “I thought you told me you guys went back to Kate’s for a movie.” Gibbs frowned, setting the polish aside on his coffee table.

            Almost instantly turning a very pretty shade of pink as Gibbs leveled one of his sternest glares her way, Tony squirmed uncomfortably on the couch and looked longingly toward the open window directly to his left that had been rendered unreachable by his still-wet toenails.

            “We did.” Tony earnestly instead. “We watched _Casablanca_.”

            “Yeah?” Gibbs asked, narrowing his eyes. “And what did you do _after that_?”

            “Tom…Took me out for dessert.” Tony confessed, turning all the redder.

            Sincerely concerned that such a statement was some sort of modern euphemism for something else, Gibbs nearly choked on his coffee as he glared at his daughter.

            “No, Dad!” Tony heartily defended, quickly backing away to the other, safer, side of the couch. “We really _did_ have dessert! I promise!”

            Having been a parent far too long to fail and recognize when he was being fed half-truths, yet understanding enough to realize that all children fibbed to their parents every once in a while, Gibbs narrowed his eyes even further but charitably refrained from slapping his daughter upside the head.

            “ _Then_ what did you two do?”

            “We…went back to my place to watch _The Breakfast Club_.” Tony reluctantly confessed, by that point in time nearly brick red with embarrassment.

            “Tony,” Gibbs sighed, “Please tell me that you didn’t sleep with this guy on your first date.”

            Because while it was a rather archaic request he was making of his daughter, Gibbs just couldn’t stomach the thought of her being so…promiscuous within seconds of meeting a guy – no matter how charming said man was acclaimed to be.

            “I’m not going to lie to you, Dad.” Tony frowned, refusing to meet his eyes.

            “At least tell me that you used protection.” Gibbs sighed. “Because estrogen won’t keep you from catching an STD.”

            “Oh my God, Dad.” Tony groaned, holding a pillow over her face. “How many times are you going to try and give me the sex talk?”

            Thinking, but otherwise refraining from speaking the thought aloud, that Tony very often needed to be told things several hundred times before they finally sack into that stubborn skull of his, Gibbs rolled his eyes and rose to his feet to close the window and likewise avoid the temptation to headslap his daughter for her cheek.

            “Is it so wrong for me to worry about my kid?” Gibbs asked rhetorically, heading towards the kitchen to make them more popcorn.

            “I know you do.” Tony assured, trailing after him to make sure he made good use of the ‘good’ butter. “But it’s just that I wish you would trust me to know enough not to have unprotected sex is all.”

            “It’s not that I don’t trust _you_ , Princess, it’s that I don’t trust _them_.” Gibbs soothed. “I mean, you don’t have a very good track record when it comes to choosing men.”

            Woefully unable to refute such a claim with any real success, as her last boyfriend had once been stupid enough to punch her square in the jaw, Tony frowned petulantly and flopped down into one of Gibbs’s kitchen chairs.

            “Tom’s actually a good one this time.” Tony insisted. “I _promise_.”

            “If you say so.” Gibbs mumbled, taking no care to put even the slightest trace of sincerity into his tone.     

            “I do say so. And you can see for yourself in a few weeks when I invite him over for supper.” Tony pouted.

            “Tell you what,” Gibbs bargained, “If this fellow can make it up to the dinner, and _through_ it, without me stepping in and kicking his ass, I’ll eat my words.”

            “Then stay hungry.” Tony advised. “Because you’ll be eating a lot of them.”

            “We’ll see.” Gibbs humored. “We’ll see.”


End file.
